Briefly Speaking

Mantis

The TV is on, the afternoon news quietly humming through empty air, but I cannot focus on the day’s events. Instead, I look out my window, gaze at the tiny drops of rain gliding down glass like tears on a stained cheek. The dropplets collect on the window sill, fixate themselves on the body of a small creature on the ledge. I peer into the beady, curious eyes of that brown-green monster, small now — most likely recently hatched, fooled into an early life by a considerably warm Spring — but soon to be big, I am sure. I watch as the water collects on the insect’s body, drops falling to hinged joints where they’ll stick like a fragile magnifying glass. The creature wobbles its head, to and fro, tiny antenna swaying in time, pin-drop pupils alive with curiosity. I watch how it moves: two legs on the left step forward, then stop; two legs on the right step forward, then stop. I observe its praying arms unfold, its pointy hand reaching toward the glass — touch, touch, touch — reaching and poking and poking and poking, as though it were a curious child, as though it wants nothing more than to just once feel a human’s skin, to tap an arm longer than its own, and then scurry along, the sense of satisfaction its only certificate for the achievement. Slowly, I lift the window, glide the glass sluggishly up the track, the pane creeping ever so slowly, so as not to scare the tiny creature. All the while, the insect just looks on, warily, eyes and head twisting with the movement. The window now slightly ajar, I reach my finger through the opening. At first the praying mantis just tilts its head, moves its eyes towards my face as if it were trying to ask for permission, then looks at my extended digit. Once the creature reasons I mean it no harm, once it summons enough bravery, it bounces towards me, touches my finger, jumps back, stares. As I watch, I can’t help to think about how much bigger I am, how fragile it is, how nature has created us to be at odds — opposite ends of the food chain — and yet here we are, gently and compassionately trying to know one another.

The praying mantis hops from the widow sill, out into the pattering rain. For a moment, it stops, turns its body back, looks at the place from whence it just came, as if it were trying to catch one last glimpse before moving on, before leaving me with only the soft sounds beating through the television’s speakers. I watch it leave. Then, from the T.V., the anchor’s voice is strong and steady as her eyes peer back at me from the screen: “A man will spend the rest of his life behind bars for his role in the murder of three people, including an 8-year-old child, in Martin County, Kentucky…”