Poetry

People have different reasons they write. Escapism, therapy, a burning desire to help others. For me I sometimes feel compelled to write things down and last night was no exception so here is a rough draft of what happened to me yesterday night. Try not to laugh too hard. 

The Fifteen Dollar Moth

Driving, comfortably winding my way along the darkened road on my way to deliver eggs to the last customer before heading home. 

The girls are quiet, it's been a long day but now we are enjoying the peaceful evening and thinking thoughts of home and a comfy bed.  

I see something fall out of the corner of my eye. 

A soft, warm whisper of a touch on my arm which makes my heart skip a beat. 

Panic! Is it a moth? Bat? Panic! 

Breathe. Think. 

It's probably just a moth I tell myself. 

I really do not like moths, how do I get it out without looking like a complete idiot? Irrational fear or not, I do not want a moth inside my car. 

My mind is racing, my body tense despite knowing a moth cannot hurt me. Irrational or not, I do not like moths and I must find and remove this one. 

We pull up to our customers house and bag up her boxes of eggs. The air is cooling in the way an early Autumn evening does and the smell of the apples on the nearby tree reminds me of pie making with my children. 

I am pulled from my short reverie by the reality that I cannot find the change I need for this customer. I know I tucked $15, a ten and a five right there in my visor. I know I did!

And then I see it. The two bills of soft warm paper, lying beside the gear shift in the middle of my car. 

My $15 moth. 

And with a self deprecating chuckle and a deep but still unsteady breath I realize this whole panic has been for nothing.