Broken Wings

“Should we visit Ani?”

My son had just finished a session with the orthodontist. We had appointments for both him and his sister, and I had to inform the dentist about Ani’s death.

“Yes, I would like to see her.”

… Ani’s grave is close to our house. Hardly a 15 minute drive through corn fields and expensive housing tracks. The small cemetery looks over a narrow country road.

We had tears in our eyes already, yet the visit to a mound of dirt, still wet from last night’s storm, somehow brought a sense of keeping the promise. That we will be there for her. No matter what happens to her. We had said that many times over her short 12 years. Now it is a strange promise, yet one we will keep.

As we walk the path to her grave, near the wooden fence, overlooking the narrow country road, we turned silent. Words do not exist for the walk to a grave. Especially to the wet mound of clay-dirt under which we buried part of our soul, our daily sunshine. Words do not exist to describe the sound wet grass makes under one’s trembling feet on the way to a daughter’s grave. Words do not capture the missed heartbeat as one gets close to a wooden fence near which a pile of flowers, wilted from the Southern summer heat, cover a smile, long fingers I loved to kiss.

As we squatted near the grave to touch the dirt and whisper “hello love”, a yellow thing flapped nearby in the grass.

“Look dad, a big moth!”

Yes, Greg was right. It was a big yellow moth. Shiny wings and a dull-yellow trunk. But wait… the moth had its right wing broken! It was still there, but half of it was folded back, intact, yet broken.

The moth could not fly.

… I looked at the moth. The symbolism was overwhelming. Our angel had her wing broken. She was under 8 feet of wet dirt. Wet from the storm last night.

Broken wings… Gibran wrote about them. The Bible mentions it. It is the most figurative metaphor, in any language. Yet, finding a yellow moth, near a grave, with a broken wing…

I gently picked the fallen moth and placed it upon one of the wilted flowers on Ani’s grave. The moth stopped flapping its wings. It clinched to the stem of a dried carnation and stayed there.

… I took an old camera out of my backpack and took a picture of the moth. Then took a picture of Greg crying upon the grave.

Then I wondered if there are signs Ani is sending us. Or if it just was a large, yellow moth which got its wing broke from the storm last night. Next to a freshly dug grave. Where we descended our daily sunshine.

August 11, 2005.