Written by Greta Scheff

Art by Greta Scheff

At the secondary space I rarely called home,
the rotten motel became my grounds
for pioneering through unworn territory.

Through stubborn blades of grass,
there she was: solid garnet
with an ink-blotted back,
so still, as if anticipating my rescue.

I put my new friend in a wooden box
for her to live.
I made sure there was airflow
for her to breathe.

I forget what name I bestowed, but 
it was probably just Ladybug. 

I slept restless and apple-cheeked.

Twelve hours passed
and I prepared her leafy-pollen
breakfast, served on my finest silver;
only to find Ladybug a pale red 
and stiffer than the day before.

That morning I mourned
the loss of my own. The dawn
of a feeling, soon-to-be familiar.

Still, this wooden box holds
her, and the others I have tried to keep.
Eventually, maybe I’ll learn
not all can be saved.