Looking through mosquito wings. He held it up by its feelers, the sky hazy and matte through each sheer wing. He peered at the sun tucking behind the clouds through his new lenses. It?s safe to look, he said. I fretted over his retinas. Death belongs to everything, even this mosquito. He doesn?t deserve life any more than I deserve eyesight. Blowing on the mosquito he said, What is life but breath? Is he any less alive now than yesterday? When we turn to dust and the wind scatters us amongst our descendants, are we not alive?
