Last week, I heard a great scream erupt from the depths of a large lecture. It was quickly muffled by hands and an exasperated voice, “It’s just a moth.” Soon, a fluttering tan form darted toward the ceiling light, shedding wing flakes as it clumsily bobbed its way to the sky. The light refracted off the flighted insect, giving it a warm halo glow.
It’s always a delight to discover a moth indoors—and even more fun to bear witness to the reaction of its discovery. In the warmth of summer, the then-caterpillars must have come in, lured by the promise of a cool, dry place to pupate. Fattened by mulberry and sycamore, the plump grubs settled in little crevices along the walls, bottlenecking their lineage and subjecting generations of young to a life within the confines of an air-conditioned lecture hall. I imagine its existence to have not fallen far from the Allegory of the Cave. Who could say for sure what these shadows were, or could have been? The falling leaves, passersby, flitting free butterflies.
In the end, despite pleas to free the poor bug, one brave soul cornered the fluttering mess by the door and, in one fell swoop, smashed it with a shoe. There is no greater Greek tragedy than to fall into the plot of a centuries-worn tale. For one moment, the moth was Icarus, blinded by the fluorescent sun’s rays. The next moment, it was a mere smear of a life.
