It started with flies this winter. Within days, big black flies had invaded the small house I rent. At first, I was worried that an animal had died outside and that the flies would come in droves, attracted by the rotting flesh. We looked around the house. Nothing. I read online that these types of flies hibernated in the windows and that as soon as the weather warmed up, the eggs would explode. That old houses like mine, full of cracks and crevices to crawl through, were their favorite place to get in. We killed hundreds of them.
Soon after, I began to notice, as I have every time the seasons change since I moved to this city, maple leaf bugs. They are quite beautiful, with red and black patterns on their backs. In previous years, I had seen a few, which I would catch and release outside. They would not last more than a week or two. These types of bugs do not sting, bite, or attack humans, plants, or animals—I had nothing to fear for my cats. I have a certain respect for insects, for their machinations which, I know, play a major role in the order of the world and the balance of nature.
But this year, I wasn’t up to the task. There were always more. I found them in my bed, in my milk frother. A dead one in my spices. They were everywhere. Then one day, when I came home, I noticed a hole in my doorstep. Out of the hole, nearly a hundred bedbugs were swarming. A black and red tornado. I think I screamed. I took a video to send to my landlord. A few days later, an exterminator came and told us that the insect infestations in the area were unprecedented. Blame it on climate change, which is disrupting the seasons, he said, sounding a little overwhelmed by the situation. He sprayed a chemical in the house one weekend when I was out of town, and when I came back, there were hundreds of dead bedbugs on my balcony. They lived in the walls, in the cracks, and the chemical had pulled them out of hiding. Feeling guilty at the carnage, I swept them all into the little patch of flowers in front of my house, telling myself that at least they would feed the earth.
***
I remembered my twenties in Montreal, my first apartment and the bedbug infestations. The discarded mattresses and bags of clothes. We, young, penniless students in a squalid apartment, constantly living in the fumes of probably harmful chemicals to try to eradicate the bedbugs, but they always resurfaced. My body had been ravaged by bites.
***
I continued to see a lot of insects, even after the exterminator came. Two weeks ago, from the living room, I heard a strange “plop.” A huge beetle fell from somewhere into my stairwell, on its back, its legs in the air. I picked it up with a sheet of paper to get it out, and I went upstairs, hesitant. Where had it fallen from like that? Were there going to be dozens of other beetles? I didn’t see any others, and I wasn’t reassured. The day before yesterday, while picking up a book from my overstuffed bookcase, I moved a row to reach another one. On the shelf was a large, almost mummified moth. I looked at its hairy body, its black eyes, the drawings on its wings. Such a graceful insect. I threw it away, not without feeling my heart sink. I wondered why it had remained trapped between my books. I felt like I should have given him a farewell ceremony.
I am anxious these days before going to bed. Around me, couples are breaking up, friendships are falling apart, work conflicts are thickening. I try to find beauty, lightness. I am invaded by insects and I would like to find a way to coexist with them that is not harmful. I read in their persistence in coming to my house a sign that is not entirely readable. There is a hermeneutic to unfold there. I wonder how to take better care of all forms of life, how to better give thanks for the fragility of things, especially those that we do not understand.