In summer months, I am in the business of catching moths. Where there is a lit bulb and an open window, I am there too, cupping my hands around a fluttering form that’s determined to hurl itself against the light. Both H and Bert are afraid of them—they are too quick, too intent. I don’t think they mean to menace us, it’s just that we’re invisible to them, a thing of such scale that we’re beyond perception. I will not have them batted with a newspaper, so I clamber over the kitchen table and balance on the backs of chairs to reach them before setting them loose into the night. It is a
...more
