Autumn Ladybug

A ladybug landed upon my hand. I nearly shook her off when I heard a tiny voice.

This is the loneliest stage of my life, she says.

Her mate passed away just the season before. Her thousands of children now had thousands of children of their own. She was a grandmother of millions, yet no one bothered to write.

Such is the way, she says.

She had her books, she told me, but she couldn't find the words. Her stories had run dry. So she took to her old stories and rewrote all the endings. There's nothing wrong with revision, she says. But she confessed it was becoming harder by the day to read that fine line between reality and fiction.

I offer her a ride atop my shoulder. I was just on my way for a coffee. We spoke of fear and the mind. Of spaciousness and isolation. Of growing and forgetting.

We sat by the lake, gray and cloudy. She nestled in the folds of my scarf.

I told her how lost I was. How lonely I was. How infinitely small and meaningless I was. I picked off my long fingernails and fed them to the sand.

As I stood, a silver ring, always held tight to my pointer finger, slipped off easily. It disappeared instantly and no matter how much I skimmed the sand, I knew I was only burying it deeper.

It is an offering, she says. Say a prayer and give it to the lake, give it to the wind, give it to the sky.

I prayed only for guidance and surrender. In whatever form they may take.

Such is the way, she says.

We entertained the drunken conversations of the bus. We outran a storm and the wind nearly carried her off.

Walk me home. Any place will do, she says.

As she crawled from my shoulder to the leaf chariot I held, I set her in a bushel of hydrangeas loosing their red. A gentle succumb to Autumn.

As a final goodbye, she says :

I have a universe inside me.

I am worthy of a song.

But nobody will hear.

Nobody will remember.

I have sung it for me

and that is enough.