Moth

A moth lands on my wall and my mother is convinced that it’s my grandmother, perched there with her antennae waving at us. Because that is the last thread she clings to

And she tells me this, as if I hadn’t been there, as if my body hadn’t been crushed to splinters, as if my eyeballs hadn’t forgotten how to move, as if my ears hadn’t echoed back to me the same words over and over and over again, She’s dead.

as if my mind hadn’t checked out, left the building, to retreat to some safe haven where grandmothers don’t die before their time, as if I don’t still think about her soft paper-thin skin, blue under her patterned dress, as if could ever forget the sound of her voice.

That can’t be her there, on the creamy wall of my hallway. She’s in that place I dream about at night, a body, in a box, in the dirt.

But maybe I just missed the transition between worm food and moth, somehow. That’s just what my mother tells me, Being followed by a moth is a sign.

And how insensitive it would be to crush that moth before it ever gets to leave its perching place, a pest, a burden, another set of eyes watching me over me, my mother says, but I don’t believe her or the superstitions that spew from her mouth, like ribbons unfurling. She speaks,

and all I can think about is how jealous I am of the moth perpetually perched there on my wall.

Eneda Xhambazi was born in the small, southeastern European country of Albania but has lived in New Jersey since the age of four. She is currently a sophomore, majoring in psychology at The College of New Jersey, and is hoping to declare a minor in Creative Writing. Upon completion of her undergraduate studies, Eneda plans to win the hearts of millions and take over the world.