The moth flew about the room in circles, its chaotic path centered on the bright yellow ceiling lamp illuminating the Palmers’ sparkling-clean kitchen. It darted past the glowing bulb, missing it by a few inches, then curved back just before hitting the wall, aiming for another attempt. Each circuit brought the tiny fluttering speck nearer and nearer its intended goal -- once or twice it seemed as though it would finally make its landing, only then quickly to bounce off and continue ambling about, the mindless spiraling lasting an eternity to the watchful eyes of bored little Lucy.

    Lucy was visiting her Aunt Joyce with her mother and father, and all were sitting around Joyce’s kitchen table conversing about topics drear and incomprehensible to the girl.

    "Well, you know they’ll never pull out. There’s too much at stake," Joyce said to Alice’s parents in her raspy, cigarette-worn voice. Her eyelids, half-closed, gave her wrinkled face the appearance of a somnolent mummy, faded and weary. From the end of her quavering, long brown Virginia Slim, an inch of gray ash dangled precariously.

    "But, it’s wrong. You know it is. So does everyone also in the world," Lucy mom replied, looking at her sister with wide, entreating eyes.

    "There’s no use trying to discuss anything civil with her, Mary, her dad interjected, his face bright red. Lucy didn’t like his furrowbrowed look or the way he held his thin lips tight. She quickly resumed her watch on the moth, trying her best to ignore their conversation. The creature seemed pathetically unable, or unwilling, to reach its destination. Around and around it flew, erratically bumbling through the air so spasmodically Lucy could hardly keep track of it. Sometimes it was lost wholly amidst the deep shadows of the room’s far corners, spawning doubts whether it would return. But, just as she began losing hope, it floated back into view, resuming its strange dance around the shining lamp.

    Somewhere in the background she was dimly aware of adult voices: her parents and aunt still talking. The sound came diminished, a low murmuring, far away and unnoticeable. She strained her neck back fully to absorb the silent action overhead. Refusing to blink, her eyes squinted and began to tear. Surrounding figures, walls, and furniture melted into the fog of her peripheral vision as every ounce of attention was devoted to the unfolding drama above.

    Lost in reverie, Lucy mused on the nature of such a creature -- unaware, it would easily fly into a flame. Without hesitation. A dumb animal, surviving simply because so many populate the planet. Oh, but still so pretty, she thought:  a fairy or angel, gliding. Free. Wherever it wants to go. Never dull or wearying.

    A loud, heavy thud cut short Lucy’s reflections and anchored her to earth. She looked around at everyone through her flooded sight. Her father’s fist, large and solid, sat upon the table, a massive stone of meat. Lips pursed, he glared across the table at Lucy’s aunt with wide, furious, bloodshot eyes. Her mother, hands wrapped over the bottom half of her face, appeared on the verge of tearful eruption Near his fist, an open bottle of wine gradually swayed in circles until it finally tipped over and released a red deluge across Joyce’s fine white-lace tablecloth. Two other bottles also fell over, and Lucy and Joyce watch in silent anticipation as one rolled towards the table edge. Her father could have easily caught it, but he hadn’t averted his glare from Joyce -- and even if he had noticed, it didn’t seem he would have cared. A second later it fell from everyone's sight, landing on the floor with the thunderous crash of fragile glass.

    Aunt Joyce bolted up from her seat, her mouth formed in an almost perfect O. Her frail frame rattled with anger, the cigarette smoldering between her fingers bobbed and shook. The O transformed into a grimace, revealing clenched teeth through which she forced out her words, accompanied by wafts of smoke which drifted before her face and disappeared above her.

    "You motherfucker! Dirty, drunken cock -- calling me uncivil? Look at you...you fucking animal!" With each hoarse breath her nostrils flared, as did Lucy’s father’s. He had remained motionless the entire time, but now slowly hunched over, planting both palms flat on the table. Bulging from the side of his neck, a thick vein made itself apparent as he pushed himself up onto his feet. Lucy swore she could hear growling, quietly in the base of his throat. He thrust his right index finger towards Joyce, making it clear exactly whom he was addressing.

    "At least an animal with half a heart," he said in a tone surprisingly calm and self-restrained. "Cold blooded hag: it’s people like you who have turned this world to shit.

    "John!" pleaded her mother.

    "Don’t you dare talk to me like that in my own house. If George were alive he’d show you how a decent man should behave, right before he showed you through the front door!" For a moment, both stood silent, gazing at each other, unmoving.

    From nowhere, Lucy’s mother released a long wail and slid from her chair down onto her knees. With her bare hands she began sweeping the countless tiny shards of glass into a single pile, sobbing as traces of blood smeared the waxed linoleum floor. Lucy couldn’t bear to watch her mother’s crouched and shuddering form; she raised her eyes, hoping to find the moth once more.

    Gone.

    She scanned the ceiling, rolling her eyes without result. Her survey concluded at the bright ceiling lamp. The chain suspended from the side of the glass sphere encasing the bulb swung slowly in a subtle arc. She traced the string of small metallic balls, one at a time, up to the light, its intensity making it a struggle to keep her eyes open. She wondered if her little friend had succeeded, if he now sat upon the glass reveling in whatever ecstasy follows such an achievement. She hoped so but could not see its silhouette resting against the light. It probably flew to a more peaceful room in the house.

    Now without distraction, Lucy returned to the heated scene around at the table, but the kitchen was empty. Everyone had left in the few seconds she had glanced away. Where did they go? Why didn’t they say anything to her? Broken glass littered the floor in slices and glitters. She could slip and fall and easily cut herself, and nobody would be there to help her. No consideration they had...as usual.

    In the dead silence of her solitude, Lucy heard a soft tapping, the drumming of a feather, somewhere overhead. Again she looked up, directly at the light, and saw the small speck she had been searching for, except instead of sitting on the surface, the moth was trapped within the bright globe, thrashing about madly, self-imprisoned. She could imagine the absolute torture the insect must feel in such heat -- if her ears were more sensitive, she was sure she’d hear its searing high-pitched screams. There was a glimmer of hope it may escape before being cooked alive...and the desperate creature tried and tried for what seemed an eternity. Eventually, however, its vigor waned and it settled at the bottom of the curved glass casing, stirring slightly before finally coming to rest. For the next few moments, only stillness filled the air.

    The lead which had accumulated in Lucy chest as she watched these dying throes crept slowly up her throat, preparing to explode in utter lament, when a woman’s piercing scream rang out from upstairs, cut off immediately by a heavy thud.

    Lucy wondered what was going on, why everyone was acting so ghastly, why she was always left alone, why her father always seemed to erupt at these get-togethers. She wished she had a little brother -- or anyone -- to give her company now, as an indescibable sickness washed over her and further tightened her stomach

    Indecisive as to whether she should remain in her seat or attempt to discover what had happened, she let her head fall back, dismayed and resigned. She could do nothing. As she stared blankly at the plasterwhite ceiling she caught glimpse of a slight movement, the subtlest of motions, which originated from the lamp: the moth crawling up the inside of the glass again. Gradually it made its way to the top edge and peeked over the rim. Lucy’s heart lightened; the prospect something could turn out well offered her hope. She watched and waited.

    Soon, she expected, would come the point when it would take off and resume its flight about the room, keeping her enraptured, free from the world falling apart and away around her. The moth sat on the rim -- Lucy's every pore felt saturated with anticipation.

    It moved and was free again.

    Then dropped, falling straight down and landing dead-center on the messy table. It didn’t move. Lucy stared at the lifeless husk, surrounded by an amber halo of dust from the soft impact, the broken hero’s legs curled and stationary in midair, and she felt overwhelmed by grief. Never did she think she could feel so sad and lonely, her and a small dead bug in a disordered kitchen, immense and empty.

    After a while, something thumped upstairs. All remained quiet for a long time after.

    Lucy Parsons’ heart was beating louder and faster than ever she could recall as she sat in a shaking 747 twenty thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean. It was actually very minor turbulence--she knew she was overreacting, but the day had been much too long and stressful for her too take anything remotely dangerous in a calm fashion. And death was something she wanted nothing to do with anytime in the near future. Beside her, passed out dead asleep, lay her husband, Ronny Parsons, his mouth hanging open, wet and dripping. His deep breathing was annoyingly close to snoring, gusting huge wafts of whiskey-scented air into her face. It almost seemed a subtle attempt at poisoning.

    She was not having the kindest sentiments of him lately. She had to admit there had been happier times with him?long past now. He was once lean and sharp, willing to do anything in the world. For her. Now look at him: fat and getting fatter. Seems to have given up on everything they had planned originally to accomplish with their lives. Probably wouldn’t even notice if the plane flew smack into the side of a mountain. A boring, rude, anal businessman is all he is, without a single consideration for her simplest desires. Like the way he never lets her open the bedroom window when smoking those horrible cigars that last nearly an hour a clip, just because he’s too afraid to catch cold, even if it’s seventy degrees outside. Afraid of a germ, but is setting himself up for some beautiful tumors. Showers only once or twice a week. Never wants to go out; forget vacations. Only reason they’re going to LA is for his firm’s broker’s convention. Aside from this, the last time they flew anywhere was on their honeymoon. A long, long time ago.

    Feeling sullen and old, she stared down at the empty glass he held, ready to slip from his fingers. So much time already behind her, lost without realizing. She looked at her own hands, well-manicured, soft and jeweled with rings, yet still worn. Slowly aging. Liver spots will soon come. Nails to be brittle as dry straw. the rest of her body, too?a wrinkled sack draped over rotting sticks, a mocking shadow of what once was and never will be again. Oh, how would she ever handle it?

    And him. The old dog’ll probably turn into an invalid. Keep me constantly running around taking care of him. What if I’m too tired?

    No. Already I’m spent. Talks to me like a handmaid as it is. But I continue fetching his food, fixing his drinks, making his calls, and orbiting around him...a powerless slave, with never a single nod of appreciation. Suppose he’s not the only one to blame. I keep up this charade as much as him, though I catch him sneaking peeks at the younger girls who walk by. Understandable--a roaming eye is the least either of us can ask, stuck together for so long. Yet, what if he leaves me for those fresh fruits, and I’m too old to support myself? Dad did no less to Mom. Never let her have a job, a life. Dad and Ronny, two peas in a pod. No one wants to take care of a skilless old lady who hasn’t a cent to her name. Maybe I should have myself a kid before it’s too late. Someone to help me. Someone for me to love.

    "Mrs Parsons," said the stewardess who had just appeared in the aisles next to her, jarring her into the present. "Lucy Parsons?"

    "Yes?" she replied, curt, noticing how uncomfortable the stewardess seemed in her starched-ironed grey uniform, holding a clipboard from which she glance nervously back and forth at an amazing rate, from it to Lucy--her helpless expression nearly won a tug of sympathy, but the execution of her jolting delivery invoked little compassion. A poor example of indentured servitude--the sort Ronny would love to plow, I’m sure. Worthless husk she’ll be after forty anyway.

    "Hi," attempted the stewardess, her hesitant smile unleashing a perfect row of pearlwhite teeth. "There’s a phone call for you. You can pick it up on the red phone opposite the restrooms." And without another word she hurried off through the curtains concealing the second-class section. Rude on top of it, too.

    Fine. Prefer not having to draw out any conversations longer than necessary.

    Mrs Parsons rose from seat 32A meticulous, a sharp pain stabbing at the inside of her left knee as she stood. Been over three weeks since I slipped and fell down the stairs. Still hurts. Don’t heal so fast anymore. Pains just linger days and days. Best try to keep my mind off it. Wonder who’d call me now. Maybe Mom, with one of her neurotic emergencies again.

    Before heading off, she took a last glance at Ronny, her better half, and felt thankful for the excuse to be absent from his overbearing presence, if even for only a few scant minutes. A few minutes’ contentment so easily compensates for year’s worth of hard labor. Let him sleep and enjoy his respite. I’ll enjoy mine.

    She walked passed the rows of other passengers, from the corners of her eyes peeking at their faces. Most, like Ronny, were asleep, in blissful indifference of the idea they were suspended thousands of feet above oblivion. Only takes the tiniest fracture in a fuel line somewhere, the slightest disfigurement in one of the wings, or a glitch in calculations for the whole lot of them to tumble into a giant fireball. Accelerating until smacking into the ocean. Like a brick wall at that speed, it would happen so fast. No one would have time to finish their Hail Marys before brain and bone dissolved into a fine ruddy mist, softly powdering the water’s face. What a scene that would be. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about getting any older.

    Grinning in subtle amusement, Lucy reached the front of the cabin and an aluminum doorway, slightly ajar. Inside dark. As she pulled it open a light came on. Two signs?MEN and WOMEN?jutted from the wall over two narrow sliding doorways on the right; neither occupied. Lined to her left were three phones: blue, white, and red. How quaint. Beyond, at the far end, stood a door protected by a glowing red DO NOT ENTER. The cockpit. She stepped to the red phone and picked up the receiver?plastic, slightly greasy.

    "Hello?"

    "Mrs Lucy Parsons?" a man’s voice asked, reluctant and grave.

"    Yes, this is."

    "This is Doctor Giles Burns, ma’am. With the Hartford County Hospital." A wave of automatic panic rushed through her body, numbing her hands and face. She knew this could be nothing but an emergency. "I’m very sorry, Mrs Parsons, but your mother had a stroke earlier today. A neighbor called an ambulance after trying to..."

    "Is she okay?" Lucy demanded to know. Her mother had a heart condition and was regularly ill, and this was the type of phone call she had always dreaded. This would be her third stroke in under six months.

    "I’m ... afraid your mother has passed on. It happened about an hour ago. We’ve been trying to reach you since she was first brought in, but..." Lucy had let the receiver slip from her trembling fingers as she stared forward in shock. She would have collapsed on the ivory carpeted floor if paralysis hadn’t gripped every muscle and nerve.

    When was the last time she had talked to her mother? Too long. They lived too far apart--she in Florida, her mother in Connecticut. Never had time. Long distance was awfully expensive. Had she known, seized by this final stroke, that it was to be the last time she’d see the light of this world? How lonely she must have felt.

    Lucy staggered a few steps and rested against the wall. What thoughts and memories had flashed through her mind during those final, terrifying seconds, isolated in her tiny, barren apartment? Wondering where her life had gone? Where time had slipped? Where her daughter was?

    I tried so hard to escape. And all I’ve done is abandon the only one who had ever cared about me. Gone now. Gone forever. Never can be any apologies, no amends. Left her to die alone, and I deserve no better, rotten begotten child. Should be left with my waning days haunted, without family, name, light.

    A tinny voice, muffled, came through over Lucy’s sagging head, speaking over background static.

    "Ladies and gentlemen, we will soon be landing and the captain has asked for all passengers to return to their seats and fasten their safety belts."

    Oh now night coming soon, so softly crawling over deep sky, sun slow sinking under flatline horizon...mmm. Peaceful calm through pictureframe. Can’t open this window for air, a breath of cool dusk. Hard glass so clear. All day inside all time, they come, bring food, needles, in and out without a word. No words for the deaf. Men in white, objects of the ending, slowly coming.

    Men. Dad had been in the war. Soldier in green. Jungles wet and humid as the Everglades. Far from here. City too. Far gone. Ronny buried on the hill facing the statue of Mary, near the park Jimmy played. Remember. Fell off the swing and oh wasn’t that the most gut-tearing few weeks. Big red crackline on his head. Fracture. Skull. Hollow helmet’s all it is, thinplate against rough cement. No chance. Young bones too soft, unhardened by age. My only son. They say the innocent dead shoot straight to Heaven, fly with winged angels in the holy mist of our Father’s light.

    Feel heavy. Nose plugged. Vein running through plastic hose tube up into machine humming roundabout and back down again. Not me. Not there anymore. All outside. Far away. To be to be totally out stretched and soaring like the sparrows in the spruce tree outside Joyce’s house. Fluttering around, coursing. Wind-driven sparks, outside outside. I’m going, yes. Yes, time so long now going, going.

    Here’s the doctor rushing in, mouth flat line, steady rock. Husbanding hand on my head behind. Sinking though, sweet prince...

    Lights growing dimmer to dimness in dark dead where mother’ll be, memory only of

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