SQN - Sine Qua Non - Issue Two - Journal - Page 108
SINE QUA NON
Squeak. squeak. Squeak.
My hands are wrapped firmly around the cold metal sides of the ladder as the rungs yell at my
feet. With a thud, my legs make contact with the ground and I quietly sneak out of the room.
After I turn the corner and into the kitchen, I watch as my Pappaw slowly mixes wild
blueberries—which we picked yesterday—into a bowl of pancake batter. When he catches
me standing in the doorway, he shoots me a quick wink with one of his bright blue eyes.
Mammaw appears from behind the barrier of the white fridge door, a pitcher of Tang in hand.
She sends me a smile as she motions me over for a morning hug.
I am 13 years old.
Little do I know…this is the morning before disaster.
———
The death shudders of the beast are both painful and glorious to observe.
With my nose almost in the bark of a tree, which is located next to my Pappaw’s grape trellis,
I watch the final gasps of a large moth.
I have never seen one this large before. The moths I typically see at the “Mountain House” are
small enough to be trapped between my fingers. Yet, I never cage the moths I catch, unlike
the lighting bugs I manage to find—those I place in glass jars.
I wonder, can it see out of the spots?
The moth before me is larger than one of my hands, and it is a gray creature with large circles
on each of its wings. The tiny antennae of the bug have the appearance of pipe cleaners.
A sudden gasp escapes my lips when the small flickers of movement stop, and I know the
creature has passed its last breath.
I stand there for a moment, letting the gentle whispers of the wind blowing through the trees
and cicada chirps serve as a quiet prayer for the dead bug.
This is the first time I’ve watched a being die—that is, without the intervention of a fly
swatter.
The sounds of the forest begin to grow in volume—and a single sentence seems to blur into
the background of this chorus.
It’s your fault.
———
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