Mourning in a Marshmallow World

A Story by Omily

I remember, I was in child-love with you. It was the kind where a child, on a walk in the city, finds a ragged, scruffy old forgotten bear in a ditch beside the sidewalk. He frees himself of his mother's hand, running to the filthy bear, shouting in glee, "Can we keep it?" His mother is two steps behind him before he can even touch the bear, yanking his wrist back into her stiff grasp. She spits out a forceful, "No," and he never sees the bear again. Secretly, the child knows it was alive and waiting for him. He begins to cry.

That's what you were to me, except I was luckier. I could keep you. I found you in the spring after your nest ruptured and a hundred of your brothers and sisters, with you, poured to the earth. It was probably as exciting as a movie. I was anxious for that time of year- the time when the caterpillars fell from the sky- and I'd wait under your massive cocoon nest for you to drop on my head. Sometimes, patience was too much of a burden (I was only six) and I would throw sticks at your nest weeks before you were due, just to see if I could defy nature.

Like I said, I fell in love with you. You inched onto my finger with that slow, determined accordion-like crawl, as if you had chosen me. I took that for love, too. Sprinting to my house, we flew together. I showed my new best friend to everyone, met with exasperated sighs from adults and put you in a glass jar with holes poked through the lid. You crawled up your new furniture (a short stick and a few leaves) and I knew you had made yourself at home.

I toted you everywhere with me. You visited the playground, my grandparent's house and most often, school. Some of the kindergarten faculty thought it was cute. Others scrunched their noses up and called you a worm. More specifically, a tentworm- that's what most people called you. I called you a caterpillar. I called you something else, too, but that name slipped my mind years ago. It started with an "S," like slither or snake. To me, you were a fearsome, killer snake that only I had the secret power to tame.

One day, about a month after I had you (it was probably a week, but to me it was a month), I was cleaning your cage and allowing you to explore my upper shoulders. After I had furnished your home with fresh leaves, I lovingly placed you back inside. Maybe I was rushing, or maybe my mom called me, but for some reason- I like to think I had an excuse- I hadn't taken note of your placement before closing the lid. In my carelessness, I squished your head. A bubble started to form, like a swelling brain and I screamed. With your stiff body in my hands, I dashed into my house, yelling for my parents. Together, we affirmed your death. I held a private ceremony for you in my backyard. I probably cried the rest of the day. As part of the mourning process, I drew a picture of you. I ran around the house, proudly displaying my finished masterpiece, like some kind of therapeutic release. There was a dinosaur, a few dead dogs, and you with newly sprouted wings, all in a better place- in heaven. My parents told me what a nice picture it was. I told myself what a nice picture it was. My grandmother told me that caterpillars didn't have souls, so they didn't go to heaven.

That broke my heart. I waited for a sign to show me you were an angel somewhere. I'm still waiting for that sign. Some day, I will return to my childhood home. I'll walk to the caterpillar nests, like gobs of sticky marshmallow woven into the trees. I won't throw any sticks- I am older now and I know patience. I will listen to your brothers and sisters as they fall to the earth and wait for them to tell me if you, my child-love, grew wings and made it to heaven.