At some point in her life she’s found a moth and held it in her two hands. She kept it cupped and safe, while it whirred and bumped around inside. She kept it there as long as she could, but knew she had to let it go. When she released it, the moth flew away, leaving behind a shiny tracing of wingdust adhered to her palms. So beautiful, the moth. So beautiful, the way it flew away. So beautiful, the dusting left behind. So beautiful, all of it, so very beautiful.

She is the moth. Her parents are the cupped hands. This photo is the wingdust.