Here's the funny
thing about this story. I came across the poem on pinterest and I
immediately decided I had to write a story about it. What I didn't realize though was
that the poem I was reading was not the full version of Mary Oliver’s poem. The
day after I wrote this story, I looked it up and the end was infused with such
a measure of fragile hope. I guess I expressed that hope in a completely
different way in this little personal rendition/imagining but I want to make
sure you for yourself get to read the end. So after you finish the story…read
the end of the poem.// Side note: all the italics in brackets contain Mary Oliver's poem which is NOT MINE.
I did show
this story to quite a few people and it leaves them confused because this story
is highly symbolic. There are only two things you have to know ( I suggest you
reveal them after you read the story but that’s your choice, highlight for the
reveal :)…moths are often a mythological symbol for souls and this was written
for those who have degenerative/chronic illnesses. The rest is up for you to
understand and interpret.
The White Moth
{ There's a kind of white moth, I
don't know
what kind, that glimmers
by mid- May
In the forest, just
as the pink moccasin flowers
are rising.
If you notice anything,
it leads you to notice
more
and more. }
It begins with photons of light
crinkling beyond the edge of her vision. First her feet hit the floor and then
her eyes bat open and the particles of light dance and twirl as she rubs them.
In a feeling akin to desperation she repeats this every morning torn between
the strange magic and the mysterious inconvenience.
Bit by bit the white lights floats
in. Filtering through tall cedars and flying wood dust, traversing past the
pale blue and golden morning sky it enters the cabin in the woods and grows
inch by inch illuminating her feet and pale long legs.
And slowly the light reaches her
eyes and inside as the dance grows orange, red and yellow the particles
disappear in blinding flashes and she is forced to open her eyes and face
reality once more.
A cup of tea made by trembling
hands, a rough slice of brown rye bread and poorly spread butter, a lucky wild
strawberry mine uncovered yesterday. She lets out the kind of breath soldiers
let out when they escape death.
Her eyes waver, flooded with light.
The wasps buzz around the dropped strawberries that litter the porch. Today
five small berries make it into her stomach. It is a good day. Is it good day?
A faint shadow passes over the sun
They say faces tell stories, well
then her face is a canvas a million vagabonds scrawled on. Fine lines over
faint birthmarks, a deep scar on her temple. Blank watering eyes. A quivering
mouth. Grayish lavender circles around her eye sockets.
And then from the depths of the wood
where the squirrels screech and the mourning doves coo comes a little white thing.
Fluttering, flapping…
A white moth in the day
{ And anyway
I was so full of energy
I was always running around looking
At this and that
If I stopped
the pain
was unbearable }
She bends her knee, her eyebrows
furrowed, her breath deep... focused. The crowd roars, but she's too far away
in her thoughts to hear.
... your mark, GO!
She doesn't run, she flies
“a pre immortalized legend” critics
call her
“...reserved her place in history
before even turning 20”
No one ever asks why, they always
ask how, what and the wows, the praise. It is as if someone is spilling empty
nutshells into her hand.
“Really now” she thinks as the
reporter announces her as the three time 200 dash women's league winner. What
she really means of course is that-
Her eyes glaze over as she sees
pictures pass like a slide
Her mother in the bleachers cheering
in May, In May when she held the first finisher cup up and cheered as if the
earth was the most beautiful place to exist.
Her mother in June, the soft hand
brushing away the river on her cheeks. The hair falling out.
Her mother in July. Like the
skeleton of a songbird. Weak song spilling out of her persistent spirit.
Her mother in August. Her mother
under the cold soil of the earth which is the most ugly place to ever exist.
“Congratulations! Congratulations!”
And the crowd goes wild.
But running... running is not about
prestige, passion, fame. Running is about forgetting. About not feeling
anything but the cold fire in her lungs and a tense pulling throughout her muscles.
But lately her eyes have been
closing, blinking. Her muscles wasting under tan skin. “It's the incident, it's
been painful that's all” she tells herself everyday. “ I will be strong again.
And run faster, forget better.”
But deep down she knows her
monologues are desperate lies. And the panic is driving her mad.
{ If I stopped and thought, maybe
the world
can't be saved,
the pain
was unbearable }
Her hands tremble, tremble as slowly
butterflies and moths flutter around her and begin to land on her skin. Orange,
blue, pale yellow, brown gray flash. Her skin crawls but her watering eyes
focus on the white moth still fluttering. Dancing on air, light, effortless…
She holds her eyes open, sobs
catching in her throat as tears of searing pain roll down her cheeks.
The moth sways and the forest grows
blurry
deep buzzing fills the atmosphere.
Slowly the world goes red as her
eyes fall
Then orange, then yellow
Then she tastes the sweet aftermath
of fruits on her tongue for the first time in years, she feels a strange kind
of warmth seep through every crawling inch of her skin.
Maybe her pale crooked mouth even
forms a Mona Lisa smile.
And then the light goes white
The butterflies disappear
Two white moths flutter into the sky
_
The rest of this lovely poem
Finally, I noticed enough.
All around me in the forest
the white moths floated.
How long do they live, fluttering
in and out of the shadows?
You aren’t much, I said
one day to my reflection
in a green pond,
and grinned.
The wings of the moths catch the sunlight
and burn
so brightly.
At night, sometimes,
they slip between the pink lobes
of the moccasin flowers and lie there until dawn,
motionless
in those dark halls of honey.
All around me in the forest
the white moths floated.
How long do they live, fluttering
in and out of the shadows?
You aren’t much, I said
one day to my reflection
in a green pond,
and grinned.
The wings of the moths catch the sunlight
and burn
so brightly.
At night, sometimes,
they slip between the pink lobes
of the moccasin flowers and lie there until dawn,
motionless
in those dark halls of honey.
