Short Story - Miracle

Miracle was previously published in On The River magazine. I think of it as a sort of sequel to the story Sunset.

Miracle
The morning was already hot, the forecast high in the nineties. I was late, as usual, and trying to hurry, casting anxious glances at the shrinking pools of shade. A pile of wood waited to be split. I heaved back the stubborn barn door. At my feet were two struggling moths, a large Cecropia, and a small Sheep Moth. Both had been zapped by the mercury barn light last night, and could do little more than shake and spastically beat their wings in the dirt.
Knowing they were done for, I put them on the stacked wood out of the hot sun so they wouldn’t get stepped on, and went to work. When I returned to the woodshed, the larger moth had fallen down onto the ground and was trying hard to make it into the sunlight. There was no sign of the smaller moth.
I watched the struggling moth, debating if I should kill him and put him out of his misery. “You can’t fly anymore,” I said gently. “There’s no use trying.” Picking him up, I brought him into the sun. He shook, his legs jerking badly. Then curiously, one by one, he got them under control and grasped my finger, sitting there. Pity stayed my hand.
“I can’t hold you,” I said regrettably. “I have work to do.”
The moth sat there, his wings flexing now and again, obviously calmed by the warmth of my fingers.
“Here,” I said, quickly putting him into a small pail. “Stay in here so a cat doesn’t get you and I don’t run you over. I’ll take you to a tree in the field after I’m done.”
Soon, it was close to noon. I’d run out of shade and it was time to call it quits. After I put all the equipment away, I went to the pail. The moth inside was still trying to fly. I picked him up, noticing he was spasming worse than before.
He wouldn’t live much longer. “You can come with me to the house,” I said kindly, gripping his body with my fingers so as to not hurt his wings.
I began to walk. The wind was gusty, and the moth was still trying to fly. Several times, he escaped and landed in the grass, beating his wings and flopping around. Each time I picked him up, and told him, “Stop trying to fly. You can’t anymore. Cooperate.”
I walked unto my deck and put down my gloves and earmuffs. A sudden breeze launched the moth from my hands. He flew directly into the deck’s support, bounced off and then fell to the floor where he lay on his back still flapping.
“Stop trying to fly,” I said, exasperated. “You can’t.” I picked him up again, but a sudden gust and his flapping blew him off the deck onto the railing. He fell over the side.
Sighing, I went down to gather him up. He was crawling up a blade of grass, still beating his wings. I gently picked him up, and he perched on my finger, his wings still.
He’d flown successfully for a few seconds on the deck. Maybe he had enough for one small flight on the lawn, if he caught a gust of air at the right moment. It was worth a try. As the breeze intensified around me, I reached out my hand with the moth, and a sudden gust propelled him aloft, frantically beating his wings. I waited for him to fall, to be slammed into the house or branches by the wind. Instead, he kept flying higher.
I couldn’t believe it was happening. Stunned, I watched him clear the tree, then circle upward, catching the higher air currents. Soon he was over the electric wires, then the much taller trees, a tiny speck still rapidly beating his wings. He leveled off, and then began flying east, the speck finally disappearing from sight over the forest tree line.
I can’t explain how the moth was able to fly away, yet I know what I saw. Even in today’s world of reason and rationale, sometimes you can still get a miracle.

May we all be blessed with a miracle of our own this holiday season.:) May you succeed even when all the odds are against you, and everyone tells you you can't. Never give up what's in your heart, ever.