The Moths are Drawn to the Light
A prose-poem
Two teenage boys.
What could go wrong?
Like moths, flitting around in the dark.
Yet, each was the other’s light.
What was her name? I don’t remember and I’m sure she can’t remember mine.
Yet, her son was named Billy.
And I venture to say she asked Billy about the Houston boy named Nikolai.
I had Billy’s name seared into my brain in an everchanging list of teenagers I maneuvered to keep away from my son.
Yet, Billy seemed to keep the number one spot.
Two teenage boys.
What could go wrong?
Those two delicate moths, flitting around in the dark until they bumped into the light of each other.
We, as their mothers, whose names are unmemorable, pasted friendly smiles to our faces.
We nervously permitted them to hang out.
Under our supervision.
After the year at the sober high school, mom — whose name I can’t remember — took Billy home to California.
Can a moth fly unaided that distance from Houston to California?
