the burden of all ladybugs

a poem

They turn up dead

More often than not—

Ladybugs.

Caught between windowpane and dented screen.

Lost atop the tallest shelf

in forgotten dust.

Swept beneath the cabinet chasm

on the far side of the room.

The thing is upside down, too still, faded—

But still

Red. Black spots. Clinging to what makes a ladybug

itself.  

It was alive once.

There is no evidence my grandmother liked ladybugs. But we spotted one crawling on the window in the room where she died.

When she died.

It was alive still.

A fragile thing upon which we hefted our mourning and memory.

Now, it is the duty of all ladybugs to carry that burden.

“Camy,” my girls gleefully giggle whenever they spot one:

Red. Black spots. My grandmother.

Vibrant, faded, still, alive.

It is the burden of all ladybugs to carry

her memory

for us.

Thanks for reading! I don’t typically write poetry, but as I mentioned a few weeks back, I’m in a class on Catholic storytelling and we’re trying out new forms. Let me know what you think.

And another thing: If you need your weekly dose of Ignatian spirituality, check out this week’s installment of “Now Discern This” over at Jesuits.org.