As I wearily trudged out of the art studio, so late in the evening as to call it night, I came across a Luna moth, huddling against a glass door, in search of that ever-coveted light. He crept quietly into my hand. He knew I would bring him into the light. He and I were bosom friends, even if only for a brief time, and we spent that brief time recording memories.
I set up my studio with one hand, the other cradling the large insect. I photographed him, focusing on the detail of his wings, the fuzz of his body, the feathering of his antennae. All the while, his rosy legs and microscopic, hooked feet clung to me in a silent embrace. Despite my silent pleadings to wander onto a black, neutral background, he would not abandon me.
He was heavy, more like a small, delicate bird than a large, burly insect. As his wings stretched the length of my hand, they brushed my skin, leaving the light moth-dust left by the accidental caress of any moth-friend. Rosy-pink legs stretched from a round body, yellow like fresh butter. His body, hidden beneath the pale green sails that granted him heavenly journey, ended in golden antennae, feathers spun from fine gold.
When I had satisfied the art-love of my adulthood and the insect-love of my childhood, we stood, hand in hand, at the studio door. Behind us, the warmth of the studio and shared memory. Ahead, the night. I raised my hand in silent offering to the embrace of darkness. My friend stretched his wings and flitted off into the night.
I sent him off into the night to meet his namesake, both brilliant specters in a darkened world. I had made a bosom friend and sent him off forever in less than half of an hour, and we were better for it, the both of us.