The Overwhelm of a Lanternfly

A year ago, I walked past a spotted lanternfly on a city sidewalk.

I saw the cardinal red wings spread wide and polka-dotted on the gray cement, so bright and invasive and out of place. I thought, "Oh, that's a spotted lanternfly," but now I can't even remember where I was, only that I was late.

Remember when the spotted lanternflies first arrived? Bigger than moths and warning-light bright, hitchhiking west across the agriculture states, rumored to be capable of destroying grapes, apples, hops, trees, lives. They will swarm in the air, suck dry the crops, leave sticky residue on your kids' monkey bars, the experts warned.

We were supposed to kill them. Swat, stomp, squish, spray, whatever and however you can. They are invasive, they are dangerous, they spread like wildfire, like the plague, they will come after your farms and your children and your children's children.

Danger bug

Kill and report the bugs, the experts told us. Call the USDA, the FDA, the FBI, the ICC. Report the recently deceased's location, its size, weight, preferred pronouns, polling site, and last words of note. Tell where you were going, where you were coming from, and where you wish to be five years from now. Confirm the murder weapon, interview any witnesses, shore up your alibi, research the insect's rap sheet. Everything must be recorded and preserved. Take a picture and send it, too, as proof that you complied and you're on our side.  

I think I was on the sidewalk rushing into my psychiatrist's new office, the third new office she's had in 18 years, each one as identical as the last. I had miscalculated the drive and was unaware of the copious construction delays on the street out front. Then, I wasn't sure of the building. This new office is hidden in plain sight, just like happiness, five stories of suburban monotony. Nothing like this spotted lanternfly, which looked like it was gussied up for an important event in a crimson skirt and gray-white jacket. It looked just like the photos I'd seen on the news, like the thing I would see in my garden a month later, like something a kid would draw. All bright red and black and already dead, I think.

But I didn't take a picture of it, and I didn't stomp on its maybe-broken body to make sure its danger was neutered, so how was I to submit a report with the Department of Agriculture saying I think I've failed again? The one thing my state asked me to do, besides pay taxes and stay under the speed limit and raise good God-fearing children, and I couldn't even do it. I was too self-absorbed, too in my head, too drowning in the anxiety of being late for an appointment and worrying how to paraphrase Bukowski's quote "the whole world's a sack of shit ripping open and I can't save it" combined with "I'm fine, thanks, no major changes." 

I have everything I could ever need but I'm still so melancholy. I didn't help protect my fellow citizens or the environment. I couldn't help stop what everyone knew what coming.

And come they did. After all, lanternflies just want to live.