What is going on that there are all these dead caterpillars this afternoon? What is going on that I am noticing them all?
I wonder if he notices them too. I wonder what he thinks of all this death on such a warm, spring day. I wonder what he really thinks of morbid me.
I shiver and reach for his hand.
He says, “Hold on.”
He bends and gently pokes a caterpillar with his finger.
“Isn’t it dead?” I ask anxiously.
“Not quite,” he answers as the caterpillar remembers movement and crawls into a patch of grass at the path’s edge.
“What made you pick that one?”
He smiles, takes my hand, and pulls me gently away.