He’s told the news in a room with no windows,
no avenue of escape, from the inevitable.
There’s a hum of machines, and a doctor
who says the word like a stone dropped in water:
terminal.
It ripples through him,
but he does not flinch.
He diverts his eyes, to the moth
trapped in the room with him.
Wondering which one of them
will last longest.
The life of a moth never deals
with cancer.
The doctor squeezes his shoulder, says
I will leave you with your thoughts.
But the man spends that time
catching the moth.
He cups it, delicately in his hand,
then places it into an unused pee cup
-won’t be needing that.
He walks out into the sunlight
and decides: no one will know,
not even his wife.
Not yet, because
he still wants to be kissed without pity.
Laughed with, maybe even
argued with, playfully, over dinner
because she has a love-hate
with how he calls them mushed potatoes.
Into the driveway, he stares,
it’s been a good home.
He walks towards the door, and
releases the moth into the evening air.
The man becomes a keeper of days.
Each morning,
he counts his breaths in his coffee steam,
and by the brushes of her shoulder
against his own.
The subtleties of known love,
never misspoken when
upon skin.
But his body is a traitor.
It begins to whimper
in ways he cannot hide—
a stumble, a wince,
and the way he no longer
finishes his dinner.
She asks,
softly at first,
then with eyes that plead.
He nods,
and the truth spills like dusk
over the kitchen table.
Now she looks at him,
sees the dying winning.
Sees his spirit trying
to stay lit within his eyes.
Like a far lighthouse
illuminating in vain,
as the ship is lost
to a storm-fraught current.
In the final weeks,
they sit beneath the porch light,
her hand on his knee,
his breath shallow and exhausting.
She doesn’t ask what it’s like.
He doesn’t have answers.
They just stay there,
until the light flickers,
and the night
takes them both
a little deeper
into silence.
He diverts his eyes
from her tears,
by watching a flickering shadow;
It’s been the same moth,
these past few weeks,
showing up when the light
comes on.
There was a spider web
in the corner of the ceiling, but
he shredded it with a broom.
Because fuck spiders.
And fuck cancer.
It’s just a moth, yes, but
maybe it’s waiting for him,
to be his guide
to wherever.
~~~
Oh. Daggers to the heart babe!
This write is terminal and has a quiet elegance about it.
The whole piece gets you in the feels.
It all tied together perfectly with the moth. I didn’t realize the significance of it until the end.
Just bravo! It needs to go in your book!
Proud fiancé right here!
I was talking to a co-worker the other day, about if we should tell our loved ones or not if we are “terminal”. Because it changes the dynamics of the relationship right away. Happiness is hard to have then. It’s always bittersweet from then on.
So, I began this write based on the dilemma. But then the whole moth aspect gave me a different approach, like a focal point away from the gloom.
I will undoubtedly hack at this some more, slightly, but for now this is what I got.
Thank you honey! It’s a bit heavy I know. Just a write I swear! 😉
This is a wonderful sad and bittersweed writing on a difficult and heavy topic, dear Styxian! The moth as a spirit guide is a well chosen and meaningful symbol. A moth knows how to die. It focuses only on the light and its overwhelming attraction towards it. I think death can show us what really matters in life. Gratitude for everything we have experienced in life, for the people we love and for all of life here on Earth. Of course, a terminal disease comes with many burdens and hardships but it also gives you the chance to say goodbye and to surrender completely to love – just like a moth does.
I’ve dealt enough with death over the years. Sometimes it takes awhile for the grieving to set in, too. We try to focus sometimes, on other things less final. I tend to pick simplistic metaphoric things because its easier to relate to. And yes, the moth is always reaching for the light. Perhaps as we humans do, when we must go.
Thank you kindly, Elke. Though it was only creative writing and not reality, it is something that awaits us all in some form. Even as the survivor.
Jeez Mark, this is beautifully heart breaking and offers much food for thought. The moth motif is a clever touch.
I was going to use the luna moth specifically. But decided to keep the moth common, like people can feel like.
And yes, the symbolism of nearing the light is obvious. We may not know, but we can hope.
Thanks for the encouraging words, Rob. It was a drag to write, actually, but uplighting once done.
Brilliant work.
Thank you sir! I just edited it a bit, cleaned up some lines, added a few small touches. Now I can say I am done with it. LOL
Yes the big “C” through neighbors and family we are familiar with this destroyer of home, family, and bank accounts. We remember while younger a neighbor was sent back home to die with stomach cancer. Dude you would not believe the screams, the entire neighborhood felt relief with his passing. Maybe, just maybe this moth was also is spirit guide. To tight dude
I’ve been around that sonofabitch death too much. It tries to numb us, but we’re too human to be too cold.
I would believe the screams. We had a guy gut-shot and it took forever to get the medic helicopter to us. He hollered so much some guys started yelling at him to STFU! It is not like TV or movies, at all.
Thanks for the Props!
Brilliantly penned, Mark. This one has layers and depth my friend, and it pulled on the heartstrings as well. Excellent write. Appreciate you.
Damian
I felt it was relatable to us all, in some degree of closeness to someone who has gone through it. One day it will be old news, as mankind will eventually find a cure and perhaps prevention. Til then, we stay humanly flawed in this way as well as other ways. Yet life is awesome!
I enjoyed this. It is full of images and captures the rolling duality of life and death, with style.
Regards James
Thank you James. It was one of those writes that I am not so sure that I enjoy writing, because of the content. Yet, sometimes as writers we go with what compels us to write about. It stayed with me awhile so I figured I’d write it down.
I appreciate the acknowledgement of my results.