My home seems to have become an insect burial ground... I don't know how I feel about that.

A couple of weeks ago a moth flew through my kitchen window and proceeded to smack itself into every single object it could find.

I remember this because this wasn't just any old moth, this was a beast with colour-coordinated wings. Upon every point of impact with my kitchen appliances, a loud smack could be heard reverberating off the walls. If I'm quite honest, the thing terrified me.

Not wanting to let on that I was scared of such a harmless thing (in order that I could still convince myself that I'm an awesomely independent lady who laughs in the face of every little bug that comes my way), I reminded myself of that really important thing I had to do in the room with no lights and took a brisk walk out of the kitchen.

Two days passed and I began to believe that the traumatic ordeal was over. It was only as I was making a sandwich one evening that I noticed this.



I initially attempted to stare it out, convinced that it was merely being tactical about it's future attack and was just waiting for me to turn my back. It wasn't until ten minutes had passed that I began to suspect the moth may not be faking it.

Of course I had to be sure. I found the largest spatula I had, took a step back, crossed myself, and poked it.

It moved... to this.



This saddened me as I realised my little beast was dead. I told myself that I would give it a proper burial at some point. Each day I told myself that. For two weeks. Some days I would even stare at the bug and mentally psych myself up to deal with it's little dead body. It was around that time that I named it. I called her Milly (she looked like a girl beast to me).

Still, when it came to picking her up, for some reason something more important would always enter my head and I'd go and do that instead.

Last night though, the most sadly beautiful thing happened.

Whilst I was in my kitchen again, another mini beast flew through the window. It did so with such a familiar ear splitting gusto that I had to check my little dead friend hadn't come back to life. She hadn't.

This new beast instead smacked itself into the cookbook that was Milly's place of rest and went bezerk.

Instantly I knew what had happened.

This new beast (who I have now called Hugo) was obviously Milly's soulmate.

When she didn't come home two weeks ago, he went out searching for her only to find her here. Dead.

In order to give him some time with his loved one, I left him alone in the kitchen to grieve. (That was, of course, my only reason. It certainly wasn't because Hugo was going crazy and had just smacked himself against my head. I ran out of the kitchen, patting down my hair as a sign of respect.)

Half an hour later, I heard the familiar smacking sound of moth against light and realised I was no longer alone in the lounge.

I didn't need to make my highly cool exit this time however. Hugo smacked himself against the light three more times, flew manically around the room once and then spotted one of my shawls lying on the sofa. It was the same colour as him. It was the same colour as his Milly. He flew over to the shawl, nestled himself into the folds and didn't move again. Hugo had died of a broken heart.



...



Of course that now means two bugs I have to touch now. Ugh, sad and gross.