ORIGIN: The family resemblance is right there. Woolly mammoths might have frozen to death, but woolly moths have inherited the Earth, and they are ready to follow in their mother’s footsteps.
The Cold has spoken, ice shall be my grave. But my children deserve better. Wings will be my parting gift to them. I don’t want my children to follow in my footsteps, I want them to surpass me. To follow the sun beyond the horizon, where the Cold won’t be able to put its hands on them. And if a flame happens to be their grave, then so be it.
Only warm air has wings. Dreams are its birthright. I am a mammoth. I breathe cold air into my lungs, and I leave deep footprints in the snow. I have come to accept my life, and I have no complaints, but once, just once, I had a dream. I brought warmth to this cold, cold world. When my children were born, I dreamt of the path I would open for them through the snow. If I had been wiser, I would have set that dream free. But I kept it close to my heart, and now both of them are full of holes. Eaten by moths. Because children have their own life, and they have no use for their parent’s dreams.
It’s my fault. I was the mammoth at the head of the line. A thousand different paths, only one future, and the choice was mine. I loathe the Cold. It’s all I have ever known. I was dying to be rid of it, but that should never have been my wish come true. I have led my children to the flames. I should never have given voice to what I hate. I should have found something I really loved and let that be my north. For their sake as much as mine.
I envisioned myself leading by example. I would have liked nothing more than to give my children something bright to follow. But the age when parents were the brightest light in their children’s lives is long gone. No more gentle, quiet snow. Nowadays the air is full of neon screams. And children, if they learn anything at all, it’s by listening to those cautionary tales.
Your mother is a mammoth frozen in ice. But all warmth isn’t lost. Her last words were for you.
My son, fake it until you make it.
What was I supposed to fake? A smile? Tears?
My son, time doesn’t stop for anyone. Live in the moment.
I wanted a future. I wanted to build something.
My son, if you only do one thing in this life, be happy.
I was happy. And now what?
My son, treat others like you want to be treated.
It didn’t work.
Mama taught you a lesson, but you don’t seem to like it very much. It’s alright. You don’t have to wear it on your sleeve, no one expects you to replace your heart with it. You are allowed to eat that lesson, little moth.
Be selfish. That’s what Mama said. Put yourself first. Winter gives way to spring, but Mama’s heart isn’t big enough to follow in those footsteps. Mama’s heart doesn’t beat to clear the way for you. The world is a cold, cold place, and one day you will learn that survivors don’t have any warmth to spare. That’s what Mama said, but I am just a little moth. I dream of flames, of a warmth that isn’t my own, and I would rather eat those cold, cold words than live by them.
Mama taught me to be kind. Warm. Wool in the coldest night. But I have seen what happens to winter clothes. They get eaten by moths. In the back of a closet, come summer, when people no longer have a use for them. I don’t want to live for somebody else. I don’t want to be picked from the closet only when it’s convenient. I don’t want to give. And give. And keep giving. Until there is nothing left for the moths to eat. But Mama told me that not even the stars get to choose. Nothing is colder than outer space. And there they are, those stars that look just like the holes moths leave behind, still trying to warm it up. Because fate are the lessons you take to heart. That’s why there is no escape.
Be happy. That’s what Mama said. I would like to think that she meant those words as a blessing. Stardust to give me wings. But all she did was point the moths to my chest. Be happy. Be happy. Be happy. Three times is more than enough for any curse to stick, but I have lost count of how many times Mama has given breath to those words. There is too much pressure. The bites of those moths feel like hammer blows to my heart. Be happy. And there it is, the final nail in my coffin. I can’t see the wings Mama tried so hard to give to me anymore. Now it feels like the bar has been set too low. Like Mama didn’t have any faith in me, that’s why she only wished me happiness.
Mama taught me to be myself. Why are you looking at me like that? Why wouldn’t I say that with a smile on my face?
You have come to a fork in the road. The future is a bright flame calling your children’s names, but you are their mother, and the way is yours to pave. You are the mammoth at the head of the line, those moths would follow you to the ends of the earth. Choose your teachings wisely.
I would like my children to thrive, but I still don’t know what’s the best way to go about it. I know how it feels to be weighed down by resentment. In order to fly, it’s better to empty your bones. Of all those little things that only amount to anger in the end. Less is more. But if you take too much, if you fill your bones with too much air, others are bound to resent your happiness. More is less. Whatever shall I do? I don’t know if I would be able to forgive myself if someone ruined my children’s happiness.
Dreams are an easy way out. You close your eyes, and there is your reward. Happiness painted in more oil colors than you know what to do with. Dreams burn hot and fast. They disappear before reality can catch up with them. There are no tears, there is no sweat. Sleep doesn’t give those oil colors time to dry, that’s why when you wake up there are no scars. Real life takes time. You work hard, and if you are lucky, you reap the rewards. But patience is a lost art. Watercolors will never sell as well as oil paintings, and little moths fly into flames. I should just quit overthinking it and give my children what they want.
Like a moth to a flame. Love can be taken or left, but companionship remains a basic human need. I would like my children to have friends. But there is a vital difference between a flame and the sun. The sun rises, regardless of what you do with your life. However, if your happiness goes up in smoke, it doesn’t magically reappear the next morning. Fortunately, the world is full of little things where happiness can also be found. So, if I can only teach my children one thing, it will be to be ruthless and protect their happiness at all costs.
No, thank you, I don’t need to take my time, there is no hesitation in my heart. Lying is the safest way to live, and I will teach my children to thrive.