Tuesday, December 14, 2004


Some evenings there were visitors. She would ascend the stairs still damp from her after dinner bath, small wet footprints trailing into the brightly lit kitchen, to find that a Luna moth had alighted on the outer pane of the sliding glass doors. He was big and soft and magical, larger than the span of her outstretched hand and seeming to glow pale green against the backdrop of night. Dark maroon edged its way around the tops of his fore wings, and hind-wing tails curled slightly outward from his velvety white body. Rory would tiptoe to the glass and gaze with wonder at her guest, entreating him to linger, coaxing him to respond. He stayed but was silent—his four eyespots staring back at her unblinking, gentle, knowing.


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