When the weather turns warm, the ladybugs turn out. I was cleaning one such day and had collected quite a few. I placed them in a group on the floor, with the intention of opening the window and setting them free, but before doing so I called to my seven-year-old grandson, Aiden.
"Aiden, come see. Itís a ladybug party!"
"Where, Grandmother, where?" his voice reached the top of the stairs before his legs even began the journey.
"There." I pointed a toe at the gathering of ladybugs on the floor.
"Cool," he breathed and hunkered down to watch them. After a while it was his turn to call me.
"Grandmother..." he knew something I didnít. "This is not a ladybug party..."
"What do you mean?" I turned and looked at the collection of bugs crawling around the floor in front of him.
Aiden was gently nudging one of the bugs with the tip of his finger. That bug was upside down and lifeless, its tiny arms folded ladylike across its belly.
"Nope, this isnít a party," he said. "Itís a funeral."