Holding Wasps

To appreciate anything we must always isolate it...

 -G.K. Chesterton

In the North Bedroom of the Bird Woman's House, wasps infiltrate.

No one knows how they get in, but almost every morning there will be one climbing on the screen to the skylight in the bathroom.

If they stay on the bathroom ceiling, I leave them.  

If they enter the bedroom, I kill them and think of it as a mercy killing; now they won't starve to death.

A few mornings ago, a wasp fell from the ceiling onto the front of my shirt.

I slowly turned to look in the mirror.

It was just sitting on my chest.

For some reason I thought it was thirsty and wet my hand down and put it in front of the wasp.

She quickly climbed onto my finger with dainty legs.

She was a deep iridescent blue, almost black, with hints of green.

Her black wings and antennae seemed to droop with exhaustion.

I felt her mandible scraping the water off my fingers, dragging over the ridges of my fingerprint.

She crawled to my palm.

She flexed her abdomen and I began to seriously ponder what I would do if a sting came.

I decided it would be worth.

How many people have held a live wasp?

How many people have looked at the velvety head and straight into the big black eyes?

I watched her rest her belly down on my palm, and she seemed to sigh as she laid her minuscule chin down and stared back at me.  

I marveled at her intricate beauty.

I was tempted to pet her soft back, but thought better of it.

I slowly walked downstairs, out the back door and to a hanging plant.

I gently scooted a leaf underneath her and she crawled back onto my hand.

After a few more tries, I finally gave up and gently flicked her out of my palm. 

She flew off unharmed and refreshed by the sunlight.

Another thing to add to my "I'm so grateful I got to do that before I died" list. 

I held a wasp.