Ladybugs
Ladybugs mean love, especially in winter.
Don't you just love ladybugs?
A snapshot from my childhood --
Scavenging ladybugs, their
tickly legs prickling my skin,
their effervescent wings
unfolding into hearts.
Hundreds of them, all bound together into a huge nest.
I was six then,
and Angela lala was the girl down the street.
I had a crush on Angela,
along with the other six-year-olds from my neighborhood.
Us younger kids - not yet jaded about nature,
not wanting to point our magnifying glasses at the ants
percolating through the cracks in our moms' front steps,
igniting and killing them.
Or putting salt on poor, unsuspecting snails to make them shrink into themselves,
like dogs who had seen too much of the world.
No.
Junie, my friend, and I were innocent. Cruelty hadn't tangled our hearts.
So we swarmed around the bush in front of Angela's house,
stuffing the sidewalks with chubby arms. In angular, not-quite-grown knees.
The older kids just shook their heads.
We peered into the nest of black and red
Irridescent in the sun
and said, "Look!" "Wow!" "Awe!"
These friendly insects let us touch them,
gently.
Almost like the sea anemones at the beach,
With their sensitive blush of tendrils,
they responded to us.
Tiny slick browns when we angled our hands, caught one
- or many -
weeding their way through tiny-child-sized hairs.
No wonder I gasped,
as my dad lay dying,
at a single ladybug lounging on the back porch,
effervescent on a February morning.