Dear Deceased Insect,
I think we’ve reached the stage where we can both admit that our relationship was doomed from the start. I never wanted you in my kitchen, yet you lurked there. You heard shouts when your cousins were discovered, followed by the ominous thump of the garbage can closing on a crumpled napkin that held, well, more than just a crumpled napkin. You ignored the warning signs for the chance to pursue your rapidly-sophisticating palette.
For weeks (months? I actually don’t want to know…) you luxuriated in a veritable crumb paradise. You started where all insects do: the floor. But that didn’t satisfy you. No. You wanted more. You crawled through cupboards, lingered in the trash, camped on the stovetop, and put your feet on dishes I assumed to be clean.
What a life you led! It was an endless, five-star (as far as you know) buffet, laid at your six feet. You were a god, and I was a giant, bumbling servant preparing your feast night by night.
Your life was a charmed one, and you hoped to bring a family, a new generation, into this same type of luxury. How you dreamed of it! Your children wouldn’t suffer and starve like you had. They would grow large and happy, without the burdens of forced-resourcefulness and necessary-cunning cutting into their carefree personalities.
But all good things come to an end.
It was a bleak morning. The cold seeped through the windows and chilled even your cozy spot between two large potatoes. I was in for an enormous day, and woke early to prepare a large quantity of breakfast foods. We were both groggy, cold, and thinking of other things until I lifted the potato sack and you tumbled out, crawling in a confused circle.
I dropped the potato sack. I lifted it and realized that the weight had crushed your left side. I could not tell what type of bug you were, I just knew I didn’t want your DNA replicating anywhere near my kitchen. I grabbed a paper towel and brought it down upon your being. I opened the scrunched towel to view a smashed you. Two legs kicked pathetically. You were still alive. I acted quickly to end your suffering.
It was the worst moment of our lives together. It was actually our only face-to-antennae interaction. Had you tucked yourself out of reach from my favorite breakfast ingredient, never would I have harmed you in this way. You flew (slept) too close to the sun (potatoes), and fell into a tragic twist of fate and blundering limbs. I wish things had been different. I really do.
Rest in Insect Paradise,
Working on My Coordination