In Water

Mayflies' days start in water, where time moves slowly, like in a mother's womb.
For a year, maybe two, the mayfly clings to the riverbed, a quiet little thing, feeding, growing, never knowing the sky exists. This is the longest part of its life—hidden, unseen, a life in the making. They have no past or no lovers haunting them, no tangled roots that keep them bound by earth, no language, no political ideology. Only their paper-thin wings, growing in quiet patience, waiting for the day the river lets them go.

Rage

And one day an instinct older than memory vibrates their wings. Before they even understand what they were made for, they are up in the sky—alive with a purpose. They are hungry to move, to find a mate, and to be forever. A single day—that is all they have. I wonder if they count the hours like we do, then the minutes, or if they do rage against the dying light, knowing that they will never see the sun rise as they chase the sun setting behind the hills. And do they not rage against the womb they crawled out of—the river that held them warm for so long?

Where Is My Mouth?

Or do they simply run for the hills, not bothering to save a piece of themselves? As they fly in swarms, they have to find a mate. They have no mouths, no ability to eat or drink, or tell their last wishes and fears to another soul. Their bodies are only designed for flight, for love, for the briefest existence imaginable.

Males dart and dive, looking for a mate. Females, waiting in the air, choose them in seconds. There is no courtship, no flowers and compliments, and no hesitation—just the desperate need to create something that will last beyond them. And when it is done, the females return to the water, laying their eggs on the surface, saying goodbye to their kids and the sunrises they will never see. Others simply fall, and let the water swallow them whole.

Hello and Goodbye

And males, they spiral downward, no longer fighting gravity, knowing that they have fulfilled their only purpose. Some collapse onto the water’s surface, where fish wait with open mouths—because even in death, the mayfly feeds life. Others drop onto the land, scattered like fallen leaves, their bodies returning to the earth almost as quickly as they left it.

By the time the sun has set, they are gone. The noise of a thousand wings burning to be remembered is now gone. Their spent, and drained wings float in the current, in silence, as they dissolve into the water, into the earth.

I Am My Parents

Right now their eggs are safe and warm in the river’s womb, cradled by the slow currents. But one day they will hatch, and their nymphs will crawl, maybe in a year, maybe two. The same instinct will stir them in the same place, like their parents and the ones that came before them, as it will whisper the same sentence:

“Run for the hills, kid.”