interlude: rescuing dragonflies
Recently, my mother, my sister, and I were walking on the beach. We had planned to discuss the usual topics.
Suddenly my mother pointed down and said “What is that?—Oh no.”
It was a dragonfly, partially embedded in the smooth slope of wet sand. Its head and thorax were stuck, its abdomen was almost vertical in the air, its wings saturated. It wasn't moving.
My sister, having that deep affinity for animals and insects that often translates into immediate, practical gestures, knelt down and removed the creature from the sand. We gathered around her palm, expecting the worst.
“Look!” my sister said. The dragonfly shuddered, then began vigorously cleaning its face. I thought my mother would cry.
“Do you think it will fly away on its own?” I said.
“I’ll take it up to the dunes,” said my sister.
We all went together even though the sand was hot and we hadn’t brought flip flops. My sister put her hand close to the beachgrass, to encourage the dragonfly to move onto a leaf. In the next instant, the dragonfly leapt from her palm and flew away.
We cheered.
Back down to the water, we tried to resume our usual topics.
“Oh!” my mother exclaimed.
Another dragonfly; almost buried.
“This one’s definitely gone,” my sister said as she brought it into her hand. That deep affinity and those practical gestures are often accompanied by a kind of graceful pragmatism about death. But after a few moments, the insect shifted back to life.
We walked up to the beachgrass. And down again to the shore.
“Oh my god, what is going on?” my mother said when we found the third dragonfly. Its condition was stable. “I’ll take this one up,” she offered.
My sister and I stayed and looked out over the ocean.
All at once, the lifeguards began blowing their whistles and calling people out of the water.
A group of dolphins was going by. Fish were leaping out of the waves. Seagulls began to circle overhead. Dolphins aren’t an unusual sight, but this was new—I’d never seen them so close to the beach in my life; this beach I’d been coming to since I was a child.
A crowd of people formed on the water’s edge, gawking. I looked behind me. My mother’s back was visible, swaying toward the beachgrass.
“She’s gonna miss it,” I said to my sister. I wanted to beckon to my mother but she didn’t turn around. I don’t remember if my sister said anything. Why does it take so long to walk across eroded, granular rock? By the time she returned the dolphins were gone.
“It’s okay,” she said.
We started back toward our umbrella. The usual topics still needed unpacking. But all three of us were quiet, distractedly scanning the sand. And the near horizon—for dolphins.