My Relationship With Bugs

        I’ve  always had an awkward relationship with bugs. Here's why.

Cockroaches have the biggest sense of entitlement and vary in socioeconomic status. The small ones are bold intruders-- crawling on peeling linoleum floors.  The larger, more affluent ones are fortunate enough to scurry along alleyways or scour industrial trash bins for the remnants of food scraps.

          Mosquitoes, the most common household pests, border on the line between clever and clueless. Either, they are skillfully avoiding being squashed by the weapon of choice, or banging against a lightbulb, probing it for an experience. Flies are fascinated with ears, whizzing past lobes and canals, as if whispering taunts (catch me if you can!).

         Butterflies represent the flowering of a new identity. They are beautiful, that is, until they are flapping their wings against the fragile walls of your chest, trapped in the lining of your stomach, vying to be set free.

         Ants like to play with the mind.  You are convinced that someone is poking you, only to find a tiny black ant circling your elbow, intrigued with the skin there, or perhaps thinking it is a quicker route to its destination. Ants also teach us about teamwork and consistency. They dig their hills in a systematic, utilitarian fashion and collaborate for survival.

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The insects of my childhood are distant now. Cicadas appear every seventeen years. I first encountered them in elementary school. They came in a swarm.

Fireflies were my friends. They were the least hostile of the insects I had known. Now, they spark memories of summer nights when our A.C would develop a mind of its own. We found respite from the heat by lining the white wooden floorboards of our backyard deck with woven raffia mats the burnt orange of the sunset.  The trees formed a tall canopy above us as we spent most of the night star gazing. When we awakened, our faces, tattooed from the raffia, felt rugged with an odd yet familiar texture.

            The fireflies lined the night sky like tiny fluorescent lanterns. When their lights went out, the flies fell to the ground.  At times, I would squish one between my fingers so that the tiny bulb carrying the light could settle on my palm before flickering away. Not only were these fireflies my starry night companions, but in hindsight, I realize that I had more in common with them than I thought. I have a light to bring with me to dim places. Whether in an act of kindness, or of love, or of patience. The fireflies taught me that we are only here for a short while until we must become one with the earth again. Yet, unlike the fireflies, if our light is bright enough, if our legacy is deep enough, it will not flicker away. It will live on, even after we are gone.