Page 9 of How Does It Feel?

Maybe I should chop my hair off into a pixie cut. Would that produce a more serious appearance? Don’t get me wrong, the compliments I received during my training or at the local watering hole were lovely. Real confidence boosters even. Unless you were in my field.

The older professionals constantly talked down to me, assuming I was a brain-dead idiot simply based on my looks. One time in college, a professor convinced me I was in the wrong class, only to send me to a fashion and textiles classroom. Shortly after that, I stopped wearing makeup.

I was so tired of not fitting in anywhere.

That very same professor asked me out later that very same year. What a joke. At least until the higher-ups told him I had been offered the job to replace him. I hadn’t accepted, but it was so great of them to offer. I’ll never forget the look on his face.

I pulled up my waist-length hair to see if, in fact, a pixie cut would help make my appearance more studious. It didn’t appear to, so I continued with my routine.

I washed my face before patting it dry. My cheekbones rested high on my heart-shaped face, making my oversized blue eyes look even more doe-eyed. I scrunched my face in the mirror and made myself smile.

I was happy with who I was. Things were often hard, but I knew there was a light at the end of every tunnel. If the Lepidoptera Migratory Society didn’t want me, that was okay. I understood not wanting someone to flake halfway through a long project to go have a family. But them assuming that was something I would want or do made me sad. I could never whole-heartedly love someone, not after everything that had happened.

That’s okay. I would prove to them I was serious about the conservation of the moths and butterflies, and they would accept me eventually. They had to.

How else would I find them?

If the society members took one step into my house, they would know just how serious I really was about butterflies.

Photos of wings lined every wall in my small home. Beautiful feathered falcon wings backlit by abstract colors. Realistic paintings of every species of bat and bird wings lined my entryway. I had even added a photo of Dorothy the turkey’s, now not-so-gimpy, wing to the kitchen wall collection. Some from my family’s postcards with wings, several from antique stores.

I had dedicated the last ten years of my life to the Actias luna, or luna moth as most people called it. It had been the sole reason I moved to Willow Springs. The parks sent me an email after seeing a TED Talk I had done on the importance of integrating wildflowers and pollinator gardens into rural and residential properties. Several places with growing luna moth populations had reached out, and Willow Springs State Park was one of them. They said it was a shot in the dark for such a small state park, but when I googled where it was, everything changed.

I had been mapping the luna moth’s migratory patterns for years after my best friend had piqued my interest in them. There was one place in particular that always seemed to be a hot spot for the moths, but it never made any sense. I was specifically looking for where they gathered, so this was intriguing.

What was it in the small area of Willow Springs, Michigan, that drew such a large luna moth crowd? Well, I had to find out and see them for myself, so I emailed an acceptance letter the very same day. Do I regret being so rash? Not at all. It was incredibly unfortunate that their numbers had dwindled so low the following year that I hadn’t actually been able to see any, or even one for that matter.

I would see them this year in person. I knew it. There were certain things that drew them to this area, and I needed to know what they were, or I would go crazy.

It was a good thing I was silly and bubbly, or I would be worried about receiving a mad scientist reputation with my obsessive nature and gusto. My butterfly and moth obsession started when I was little, before I even knew what a scientist was.

One day, I had been out playing in the meadow behind our old house. I suppose I was approximately seven or eight years old. My younger sister had been out with me, following me around as I picked dandelion bouquets for my mother.

A sharp pain seared through my chest at the memory, like the pain was looking for them but could only find an empty piece to land on. I gripped the smooth vanity counter and breathed through the feeling. It hurt like it were the very day it happened.

The day the car accident ripped my mom and sister from my life. The only real family I had.

But this was before that horrible day. I could see the sunlit field as if it were yesterday. Dandelions were the chosen flower to pick for my mother until I happened to see little bell-shaped mushrooms and instantly decided Mom would be delighted to have a bouquet of smashed bell mushrooms and dandelions combined. This was where things started to grow odd. The tiny mushrooms were strewn through the tall grass, a bit past where we were supposed to play, but Mom was inside, and I had decided she wouldn’t mind if I wandered a little in an effort to get her something beautiful.

As I collected an exceptionally bright and beautiful mushroom, a tiny glowing bug stood beneath it. Only, once I had moved closer in an attempt to get a better view of the odd bug, I realized it wasn’t a bug at all. Stunning golden wings fluttered behind the tiniest person I’d ever laid eyes on. I had read the tales my mother gave me, they were some of my favorites, and I knew I had found a fairy. Her entire body had shimmered gold in the amber sunlight, and her orange and yellow butterfly wings seemed to be illuminated. Even her tiny dress had hung from her dainty body like a glittering ray of sunlight. I could still recollect the intricate updo of coiled golden curls that had rested upon her head. Even her tiny eyes gleamed as though they were little citrine stones framed by delicate features and a tiny mouth. I was in complete awe.

I threw my bouquet to the ground, save for the tiniest and most pristine of the dandelions I had picked. That one I pulled free and rested at her feet as I had lain upon my belly to chance a better view of the beautifully winged creature. I was set to make my plea, asking how I could become a fairy as well, when a sudden gust of wind, quite unlike anything I’d ever felt still to this day, flung me several feet away from the tiny fairy and onto my back. I remember it like it was yesterday. I had landed on a stick that dug viciously into my baby-skinned palm. It had even left a tiny jagged scar in the shape of a small V by my thumb that I still possessed. I remembered looking at Adrianna and making certain my baby sister was all right. She was unfazed and playing with a toad she had come across. When I had turned to check on the fairy, a large wispy-looking crow, bigger than any I had ever seen, swooped down at the speed of a torpedo to the spot I had left the tiny fairy. I cried out in pure horror as the giant black bird flapped viciously with dedication as it tried to kill the golden fairy. Don’t ask me how I knew it was trying to kill it. I don’t have a solid answer other than I could feel it. The golden fairy brought feelings, good and wholesome, of tenderness, while the horrible crow emanated a sort of evil and vile feeling.

I ran as fast as I could to the helpless fairy and covered it with my own small body. I could see the glow of light bouncing upon my stomach and chest as I shielded her from the bird. It had continued its attack, only my back and head were then targeted. It flapped so wildly, so intensely.

I remembered looking up and crying, wishing with every fiber of my being that the bird would leave us. Then, a mere second later, with a puff of unnerving black smoke, the bird had transformed into an entirely different creature. Though about the same size as the large bird, this creature was more human than not. It had a similar build to the golden fairy, but instead of beautiful delicate butterfly wings, this creature carried inky black wings that looked to be made of macabre black smoke. The wings seemed to be longer than they were wide and were attached more to her shoulders than her back. The wings, no less beautiful, were different in their own right. Everything about the creature was. Where the golden fairy had oozed happiness and smiles that made you think of sunshine and summer, this creature made you feel only terror and fright, like death watched over your shoulder. Smoke seemed to flow from nowhere, surrounding her long black hair. A chill had cascaded down my spine as she stared at me with absolute hate.

What happened next, I couldn’t tell you. It seemed I must have passed out because I woke up later in a small hospital room surrounded by every family member I had ever known hovering over my metal-railed bed. When I tried to tell them what had happened and find out if the golden fairy was all right, they laughed and cried, their faces full of melancholic regret.

Apparently, the beautiful bell mushrooms I picked had been highly poisonous, and the toxins had seeped into my little hands, causing hallucinations of astonishing proportions. At least, that’s what they had said.

It hadn’t mattered. What I had seen (or not seen) changed my life forever. From then on, I was obsessed with winged creatures.

I ran my thumb across the tiny V-shaped scar on my palm as I revisited the memory. I never got into drugs or parties, so I had no basis for comparison to my experience.

I met my best friend Eli shortly thereafter, and he had believed me. He had even encouraged me to follow my passion for wildlife.

I would see the luna moths this year and help rid them of the parasites that claimed them. Then I would get to see the treasures they held in all their glory.