Sometimes I can see it, sometimes not.
But I can always hear it.
The sick, sharp “zap, ZAP” of my beloved ladybugs frying against the light bulb.
And then the almost imperceptible “ding” as they fall and pool on the basin of my ceiling light.
I say “almost imperceptible” because sometimes, their descent can actually be a bit loud.
They seem to fall louder when they all fall at once.
I fall asleep to the sound of the ladybugs’ midnight production of Icarus and wake up to twenty or thirty sets of wings huddled lifelessly on the fixture above me.
It’s the first and most terrible thing I see each morning.
Polka-dot silhouettes, spelling out some sort of jest or warning. Some sort of plea or vendetta.
So I say a little prayer before I roll out of bed. Counting their corpses like rosary beads, I pray to learn from their mistakes and laugh a twisted laugh at the simplicity of the solution.
I unscrew the light bulb.
I’m content to live a little dimmer, if I can live with my ladybugs.