My kids love to romp around in green grass with nothing on their feet. I admit, there is something about the feeling. Bare feet tickled by blades of grass is as close to country as we get here in the city.
A week or so before school started, my kids were in the front yard, catching tiny white moths. You know the kind that flit through the air and disappear in the leaves of a bush or among the flowering mums. When my kids caught them, the tiny bugs only stayed with them a moment before flying away again, leaving a vacancy for another moth.
My daughter spotted one clinging to a long blade of green. She trapped it in her hands.
“I got it!” she said, gap-toothed smile beaming.
But when she opened her hand, she realized she’d caught it too tightly between her palms. It was crushed. And so was she.
“Oh, no. No. I didn’t mean to,” she gasped. “I didn’t want to kill it.”
My girl only cries big, round tears and that day they dropped heavy from her eyes as she mourned the death of the white moth in her hands.
“Don’t cry,” I said, trying to keep myself from breaking down. She got her sensitive spirit from me. “These things happen.”
“But it was so pretty.”
“I know.” I hugged her. “They’re fragile, honey.”
We placed the broken moth under a flowering bush and watched my boys continue to catch bugs for a few minutes.
The whole time I held my girl I kept thinking over and over,
They’re fragile, honey.
We all are.