Strangeworld

I miss the sliding of my desk drawer. I like the rolling noise it makes and the familiar weight, and the clattering of all my items when I slide it shut. I also miss my kitchen door window, even though we haven’t cleaned in ages. Right now I just know there’s a weird fogginess to the glass, even if you don’t look too closely. I’ve seen the moon a million times through that window because it’s the only one in the house with a good view of the sky. Recently I think my dog has picked up on that too. She always jumps on it to look outside and leaves a row of wet marks on the glass from her nose. She is always walking into things. The same marks exist on every smooth, shiny surface in the house basically. Even the metallic fridge has a line of Sadie nose imprints, and every time I think about it I laugh. Sometimes I wonder if she hurts herself doing that, but then I remember that as intimately as I know my house, I could never quite avoid bumping into the door frames.

One thing I miss bittersweetly is my bedroom door. I miss the noise it made when I opened it, and spinning around in that particular way to close it before I left. It never shut properly though, and in fact it has been through many iterations of fitting differently when the seasons change. I’ve toiled with it for hours trying to figure out if I can fix it to no avail, but that’s okay. I guess it has personality. It’s the only odd door inside the house besides my back door, which has been practically abused at this point. We don’t use our front door as our main entrance because our driveway stretches all the way to the back of our property. Ironically, the front of the house is kept perfectly landscaped even though we hardly ever have guests. When we do, it always freaks me out because my room looks out to our front entrance and I don’t like when people look in. I hardly ever open the curtains or window anymore. I only used to in May when our old cherry blossom would adopt her masses of flowers and rain pink petals outside my window for that one week every year. Out of all the things about my childhood home, that might be my favorite. That tree, despite being sick from the time I was born practically, always bloomed beautifully.

I miss searching hurriedly for spices in my spice rack. I miss the missing cap on my sibling’s light switch. I miss my Dad’s empty coffee cup that has been in the garage since 2015 for some reason, and the reticulated rows of weeds in the cracks in my patio, and laying out sugar cookies on my kitchen table in autumn.

Yeah, I miss it when I think about it. Sometimes I think I’m too sentimental for my own good, but recounting the complexities of my home makes me feel happy. I am so fond of understanding little things like that, minute and useless details. It keeps me in tune. In my home, there are so many little reveries like that.

"Sinead,"

My bare feet hit against the shiny rubber tiles of the longest hallway in Kelley's Island School as I try to catch up. At the end, Sinead is looking back and laughing at the sight of me with my soaking wet Converse and bug net in clutch.

"Hurry up! You're going to miss it," she ushers. Although it was just raining, a golden light floods through the open doors. When I reach the end, Sinead takes my hand and pulls me towards a white butterfly bush in a mess of overgrown native Ohioan plants. She hones in on a single bloom where a Monarch butterfly is airing its wings.

"That's the one we tagged yesterday. It's Queenie."

She was right, I recognized this one. When we caught her, the left hindwing was mostly missing, and the left forewing was ripped into a rough, unrecognizable shape. Her colors were muted, a sign of senescence in her species.

She grapples weakly to my fingers as I observe her now. She does not have long left.

During late July, the 3rd generation of Southwestern migrating Monarchs pass over the finger lakes. Many rejoice on Kelley's Island to feed, rest, and foster the next generation to continue the species' annual cycle across North America in autumn. However, death nears in early August for these 3rd generation individuals who, after mating, have nothing to do but await their timely passing. Many are too weak to leave the island.

The heavily damaged butterfly takes her final sips of nectar in front of us. She has travelled hundreds of miles and persisted through unthinkable conditions, only to be met with these listless final days. Her ripped wings are something that humans can understand as a symbol of the daunting journey her species endures, but to her, it means nothing. She must die without knowing her purpose, just as nature intended.

"It's kinda sad, isn't it? She's going to die soon."

"That's the circle of life, though."

"Yeah, I guess." I rest my net down. Sinead has a huge smile on her face, but I can't say the same anymore.

I struggle to assume the emotional implications of the Monarch butterfly. One day, perhaps even in my lifetime, the species will cease to exist. A butterfly knows nothing of fate. Not the one nature gifted it nor the one that man has imposed. And a butterfly knows nothing of death, logging, pollution, extinction... But in the evening light of some long forgotten August, Queenie's faded wings look newly emerged.

I wake up after a long night
And the foreboding sets in
Past its time, I suppose
But alive in its consequences.
My body is spent
And my mouth tastes strange
Of something alkaline, almost
Metallic, unhinged.
What chemical has been poured upon me?
What insects crawl upon my skin?
Even the spiders in my room
Have brought their thin legs within
To their fragile bodies.
Shame, I denounce it
Things have gone wrong.
If I am in limbo
The day will be short
And the night will be long.

As the morning's first elusive beams made their way through the city, a dense mist settled near the square and onto the unclear calamity below. He woke to the sound of what seemed like gunshots and a plethora of shrieks, but was more aggravated than concerned. It had become normal for the people to take to the streets every time some injustice had been delivered. He stiffly removed himself from the sheets and grabbed a pack of Camels off the nightstand. Then, slovenly, dragged himself across the studio and out onto the balcony. The noise convected upwards through the fog as if it were boiling water, and the smoke from his cigarette twisted in impassively. It was always difficult to tell what was happening from so high up. Really, he knew, it didn't particularly concern him. But despite his indifference, he couldn't help but feel the slightest bit uneasy today. Light began to creep through the dying cloud layer, and the shape of the rioters took form. He saw it was more than usual- some 600 people- all shouting incoherently at a blockade of soldiers in front of the embassy. His eyes were now focused on the moving masses of people. Too fixated to realize, he took a long drag from his cigarette and choked just as a distant, hollow bang came from below. He looked back to see burning black smoke rising from a distinct hole in the crowd. For a moment, he felt the urge to do something, but what? The thought dissolved with the heaviness of his exhausted body, which he suddenly realized was pressed against the edge of the railing to see past the haze. Once the breeze had finally swept it to the East, he caught a final glimpse of the morning riots. The remaining people, who were tugging at the burning wreckage, were dismissed by the officers, and like lemmings into the sea, trickled back into their dreary confines. The morning was normal again, with only a charred blotch on the pavement to mark what had happened just moments before. It was hardly noticeable from twenty stories up. Such issues, he determined, were none of his business.