On fragility and strength

and Luna moths and Covid tests

On Monday morning, while I was kayaking with a neighbor, Bea and Harriet and Richard found something cool: another Luna moth, perched on the screen of a kitchen window. They knew that this one was a different moth because she had delicate, thin antennae, while the moth we found on Friday (a male) had thick, feathery antennae. They watched her for about an hour, photographed her, and then—they thought—she flew away.

I was amazed that they’d seen another Luna moth, such a rare and special sighting. Before the pandemic I’d seen Lunas maybe twice in my life. But being home all the time has its benefits—we’ve seen lots of new animals and plants this year and a half. We’ve spent more time paying attention to the moon’s phases. We’ve done a lot of trekking and trespassing along the Haw and the hilly, wooded terrain that surrounds it.

I was sorry that I didn’t see the moth, but a little while later, while I was working on something for school, Bea came inside.

“Guess what? The moth is back and she’s in trouble!”

We ran outside to see her; she hadn’t flown away, but had fallen to the ground. Ants were crawling over her wings, which I saw now were tattered.

“Oh,” Bea said. “I think she might be dying.”

She gently picked up the moth and carried her to the picnic table. Bea didn’t want her to die being devoured by ants. She wanted her to rest in the sunshine. We sat with the moth and watched her wings occassionally move, like she was trying to get comfortable. There was nothing we could do for her, I explained. Luna moths only live as moths about a week; they don’t even have mouths for eating and drinking. This one had a good life, I bet.

“She’s very strong,” Bea said, which is one of her greatest compliments, above beauty or cleverness. We decided to bring her onto the screen porch, where we set her on a piece of wood.

Every day, as the week went on, Bea would burst into the house with excitement. “The moth is STILL ALIVE. I saw her twitch!” Would she live long enough, Bea and Harriet wondered, to show Isabel, who was coming to see us on Wednesday? She did. I wondered if we should have let the ants devour her—was that a kinder, more natural way to go? But Bea thought this moth was amazing and admirable and strong, so I let her be.

I was preparing, at the time, for the first in-person gathering of the MFA program I direct at NC State, which was happening on Thursday afternoon. I’d gone back and forth with our assistant director about whether we should do this in person. But finally masks were required in every indoor space, and it seemed safe enough. As long as we were careful. As long as we were very careful.

Then Thursday morning I woke up with a head cold—the sniffles, stuffy ears, a headache. I don’t get colds often, but when I do (or just about any other ailment, really), it doesn’t stop me from going to work. I power through, just like my dad when he gets a bad cut (duct tape!) or my mom when her back hurts (yoga!).

But powering through, currently, means something different. I closed the door to the bedroom, and Richard told the girls they needed to let me rest. I scheduled a Covid test, and emailed my colleagues to say I’d have to join via Zoom. I shared our slides and a playlist Richard made of North Carolina music, a welcome for the students.

A little before nine I drove to UNC hospital for a drive-through Covid-19 test. It was already above eighty degrees, and would get much hotter by the afternoon. Someone handed me a clipboard through my car window, and in two lanes we crept along, as campus guards motioned for us to approach the testing tent. I put on my mask, and finally it was my turn to drive through. The technicians were double-masked, with face shields and yellowish gowns. They’d work all day in the heat, inside a sweaty tent with car exhaust and contagious people and, apparently, bees and wasps (there was a whiteboard tracking the bees and wasps each team had killed).

It wasn’t my first Covid-19 test—I’d had another one, back in early December. But that was before vaccines—free, safe, and widely available. I was fully vaccinated on April 9, and I carry my vaccine card around, hoping someone will ask me to show it.

Guess what percentage of North Carolinians is fully vaccinated?

Less than 45%.

The university community I’m part of has a better rate, but only slightly: 54%, the last time I checked. As I told the students when I Zoomed in to our meeitng, many people who have to be on campus are immune-compromised, or live with people who are immune-compromised or who are too young to be vaccinated. We are going to need to be so careful, and so strong.

The neighbor I kayaked with is 72 years old. He was one of those people who resisted vaccines for a long time, because he was afraid. People he trusts sent him disinformation about the vaccines, and so he chose to wear a mask and stay home as much as he could. I told him about my experience—entirely positive—and my mom’s, and my dad’s (also great). I sent him Youtube videos from doctors, and alarming stories about sick and hospitalized people. His doctor talked to him, and so did his pharmacist.

Finally, in early August, he got his first shot. His arm was a little sore, but nothing more than that. I can tell how relieved he is to be part of the vaccinated community. That’s why we went kayaking—to celebrate. He’d never been before, though he loves the Haw as much as my girls and I.

He did great, cruising through every rapid. He never fell out, or took on much water. The smile never left his face. It was a hot day, but the water was cool. We saw two big flocks of Canada geese, we saw herons and bald eagles and turtles and fish and flowers. We saw a river otter, playfully diving close to our boats.

“This is beautiful,” he kept saying. “This is so beautiful.”

It was! It is.

The moth lived until Friday.

My Covid test was negative.

Stay safe, friends.