She stands silhouetted in the window, watches the shortening shadows and knows in her heart what she won’t admit in her mind. Thinks of the children, asleep in the room beyond, of the way her daughter yawns and throws an arm across her face to hide the light; of the peace her son finds in the bit of discarded down he has made into a pillow.
She ponders butterflies. Thinks of her own drab motley, of how close she came to being something beautiful. Of her soft downy wings, the gentle shapes and patterns in brown and dun, knows you might find beauty in it if you stopped a minute; but who wants that? Who wants to be the quiet sensation, who wants the mystery of the every day when they could shine? She wonders, if she did, would he still leave every night, drift lazily through the breeze in search of wonder?
In her mind she glows, and the light leads him back to her, a radiance to rival the rising sun, a blaze that calls him back, faster, faster, come here, come home, come back. How much space is there between them, and how many miles can light travel? The sun rises beyond the hills, hurts her eyes, drops her dizzy to the ground.
Mourning moth wife, she wraps her wings tight across her shoulders, knows in her mind he has lost his way, has wandered into the fire. It calls, it burns, it leaves ashes in its wake, ashes in her mouth, children asleep in the room beyond and a mourning moth wife at the window, waiting, waiting. Dreaming of fire.
Image courtesy of Stuart Thursby. Stuart is an art director and photographer, currently adventuring in the wilds of Germany, where this photo was taken. To see more of his work, or to check out his portfolio, please visit StuartThursby.com.