May 23, 2011

Our house has a number of moths. There are a few moths of the sort you probably recognize, large-ish, like drab, underfunded butterflies, that batter themselves pitifully against light sources. But more common are little moths, roughly the size of houseflies, that meander drunkenly around the air without any seeming destination. I kill them often, usually by clapping my hands decisively about their hapless little bodies, but sometimes one-handed, crushing them in a fist. I’m good at this.

I suppose the little moths and big moths are different species (or varieties, or whatever) but I prefer another theory: that the small ones are just young moths, and I am so prolific in exterminating them that very few ever reach maturity.


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