The Ladybug
Today I helped a ladybug.
And the day before, I found a dead butterfly in front of my apartment door and preserved its body—to display on my wall, among my small paintings. My personal exhibition, where he belongs.
Lately, I’ve been getting along with bugs.
(Except cockroaches)
Nice coincidences for a girl like me.
A girl like me…
Someone who puts meaning into even the smallest things. Someone who constantly collects the crumbs of life—just so life would be less uninteresting.
⎯⎯⎯
Back to mister ladybug (and yes, I’ll tell you why he).
I first saw him on the shoulder of a stranger sitting in front of me on the bus. I tried to warn him, but he didn’t even notice as I gently scooped the bug away.
The road to work was long—about an hour—and I felt nervous. How do you keep something so small, so alive, safe for that long?
I couldn’t let him out the window. He’d be crushed.
But I couldn’t keep him in my hand either—he’d fly off and end up in danger.
So I emptied my sunscreen box and tucked him inside.
I checked on him now and then. Every time I opened the flap, he would run toward me—fast little legs, straight into the light.
The last time I looked before I left the bus, he was resting his tiny head against the cardboard wall. He looked carsick. As if he just had sensory issues, like me, on long bus trips.
I couldn’t bear it.
I got off early and walked to the nearest graveyard. The only place nearby with trees.
There, I opened the box. Let him crawl out—to the air, to the sun, to me.
He flew straight to my face.
Landed on my lips.
It made me let out an unexpected chuckle.
I pulled him away, like the way you pull a clingy lover.
(That’s why I think he was a “he.”)
He paused at the tip of my finger, just for a second. I looked at him one last time before
he flew.
He was a smart ladybug. Had character.
Not something you see every day.
And yes, he’s officially the last guy who kissed me.
⎯⎯⎯
Later, during my break at work, I kept thinking about him.
How kind my act must be—helping creatures in need, a “good deed”
right?
But then I remembered something.
A memory of me seeing a family once,
watching their ugly baby push a sick cat around. The cat didn’t even fight back—he was too weak. And the parents just stood there.
Laughing.
Calling it cute.
As if this torment was a special childhood moment.
Why do people only think of themselves?
Why can’t they feel the pain of the being in front of them?
And yet they call themselves good people—because they follow every rule in their magic books.
I pushed that baby away.
Scolded the family.
They left.
They looked ashamed.
I hope they were.