he looked around at his collection, priding himself on the pieces collected over the years. one with an understated beauty. another with vibrant colors. a third which was so rare he could hardly believe his luck. all boxes were his own. his life’s work. a deliberate exercise in preservation.
his first had been from new england. he had been fourteen and had absolutely no experience with anything. he was sitting on a rickety porch swing with sweaty palms, waiting on a girl who may or may not have been the girl of his dreams. as he waited he noticed it by the porch light. jerking up and down, no real grace about the movement, but he was fascinated. it was rather plain, a muted grey, and certainly nothing he would have chosen today, now that he was more knowledgeable.
he was short for his age and had a bit of trouble catching it. he had to jump up and down a bit, but after about five minutes he clapped his hands together, trapping the moth inside of them. a wing was injured, but he didn’t care. this was his first, and when something is your first, you don’t really notice things like that.
he put his find in a safe place, on the upper ledge of a window frame, and hoped the summer breeze wouldn’t blow it down. the girl came along shortly after and they were on their way. the next morning he remembered and found the moth. it was still there.
he spent that afternoon carefully pinning the moth into a shadow box he had purchased at a craft store up the road. when the final pin was in place, he admired his work. for not knowing what he was doing, he thought he did pretty well.
now he has countless boxes. each one a protective cocoon for the object inside. each one more carefully preserved and more carefully selected than the last. but that’s to be expected. that’s what you get with experience.
