Junebugs on the last night of July

The mother gingerly picked up the junebug carcasses from the floor of the motorhome. The night before, the brilliant and manic insects, large as small hummingbirds, had flown in the door, drawn inside by the lights above the motorhome's tiny dinner table. The grandmother had shrieked and the boy child had run for cover, ducking into the undersized loo, while the mother and grandfather had tried to shoo them back out into the night. The girl child sat silently, her eyes darting from junebug to junebug, wondering at the fuss. Satisfied that they had herded the umber- and honey-colored flyers back outside, the grandfather closed the door and the family set about getting ready for bed.

The next morning, however, a trio of junebugs lay strewn across the floor. Heartbroken to the point of expiring, perhaps, at their incarceration and the departure of their comrades. Laying in the middle of the mother's palm, it was hard to believe that these broken, dull little bodies had once been so vibrant and bright. She offered the bodies to the children, asking them if they wanted to hold one. The boy shook his head, said no thank you and took a step back. The girl moved in close, peering into the mother's hand. Do you want to hold one? The girl nodded and the mother tipped an insect into the girl's hand. The girl brought it up to eye level, studied it from different angles, offered it back to her mother, who took the little bodies out to the woods and tossed them into the pine duff, where they would most likely soon be food for ground squirrels or ants.

The mother returned to the motorhome, and presently caught the eye of the girl child, while the rest of the clan went about getting ready for the day ahead. You, the mother whispered, you're my little brave one. The girl smiled a secret smile and nodded. Yes. Yes, I am.