The Moth

The morning was grey and misty. The forecast was for intermittent rain. The reality was a steady mist that, almost imperceptibly, accumulated on the car windshield as I pulled out of my driveway, heading for pitted Kalamata olives, taramosalata, and yogurt from Sophia’s Greek Pantry. Visibility diminished by the minute, but I was reluctant to turn on the windshield wipers. A moth had made itself at home in my direct line of sight. It had folded brown-grey wings with darker grey markings. There were bright orange spots on the aft edge of its wings. Its legs and antennae were striped black and white, and its overall length was maybe ¾”. It would have been reduced to a smudge if I turned on the wipers. Instead, it hung on as I drove, turning slightly to align with the wind generated by the car’s movement. It wasn’t blown off as I accelerated to the 30-mph speed limit on local roads. It didn’t move when I stopped to offer it escape. It just stayed. Was it tenacious? Stubborn? Savoring the ride? Injured?

With a windshield passenger and reduced visibility, I wasn’t about to get on the highway. I took the back roads home, my mind sorting out next steps.

With the miracles of online research, I learned that my passenger was not a moth, but a butterfly, an Acadian Hairstreak (Satyrium acadica) to be exact. The adult butterfly emerges from the chrysalis in late June or July, so my passenger – now Monsieur le Papillon - was probably one of the early arrivals. Maybe he didn’t take flight because he wasn’t strong enough yet. Maybe he was waiting for his cousins to emerge. But he willingly walked onto a twig I offered and hung on as I moved him from the windshield to the top of the mailbox in front of my home where he could be spared the unforgiving wind and windshield wiper of the trip to Sophia’s. Assuming that olives, taramosalata, and yogurt were not his preferred fare, I looked up how to nourish a butterfly and learned that some water sweetened with sugar or honey and the juice of ripe fruit were what the butterfly doctor ordered. As suggested, I saturated a paper towel with the nectar and gently slid it under Monsieur le Papillon and watched as, carefully at first and then more enthusiastically, his proboscis sampled and then repeatedly savored the offering.

Then I went about my errand. It was still grey and misting. My wipers were set to intermittent. And I found myself curious about what was happening atop the mailbox at home, and willing Monsieur le Papillon back to vitality.

He was still in place when I returned. So too later when I went out for the evening and then again a few hours later when I returned home as it was getting dark.

I prepared some more nectar to again saturate the paper towel so he’d have overnight nourishment. But as I dripped my offering onto the paper towel, Monsieur le Papillon flew off into the evening. I’ll never know his fate or his story, how he came to land on my windshield. But I’m grateful for our Saturday together. I came to care for him. Bon voyage, Monsieur le Papillon.