Little black beetle
I disturbed him the day before yesterday as I was clearing up the kitchen. At first I mistook him for a piece of food, and tried to sweep him up with the rest of the crumbs. But he wriggled indignantly and waved his legs as if to say, ‘No, thank you very much, but I’ll do this myself.’ Then he righted himself and set off across the countertop with unmistakable purpose. Yesterday I saw him by the kettle. He hadn’t got far, maybe twelve inches, and he was lying on his back. As I sought to right him, his legs pedalled feebly, in slow motion. I was worried but thought it best, once I'd got him back on his feet, to let him and mother nature negotiate his fate without my intervention. Then this morning I came into the kitchen in the pre-dawn darkness to make myself some tea before sitting down to work, and I saw him by the kettle. He was quite still. I moved him hopefully with one fingertip, but it was like moving a crumb. The little black shell was empty and his legs were frozen, and I stood there, trying to figure out why it made me so sad. I wonder if it’s because his tragedy is as great as all our other tragedies – and yet there is no one to mourn a little black beetle.
