Two Short Pieces

I. My world isn’t nearly as well defined

There is a kind of molerat that lives in Israel — the hairy molerat, so as not to be confused with the more widely known, naked variety - that has a hammer head. Its head is completely flat from its nose on up, with no eyes to speak of, as if someone stepped quite firmly on its face early on in evolution. I see pictures of this strange creature and I realize that it has possibly tunneled right under my feet, and certainly under the feet of one of my family members, pounding its head against the tops of its tunnels as it went, a fierce warning, proclaiming proud ownership of the world it has created. Molerat messages are sent entirely through vibrations, since not much light or sound can penetrate the dirt they so painstakingly dig their way through. Perhaps because they have fewer options, in a world of touch and tremor, a world that consists of only the walls and passages they themselves have created, mole rats do not believe in sending mixed messages. The hairy mole rat is extremely protective of its tunnels; it will fight another mole rat to the death - an absurd battle of strange little claws and ill-shaped teeth — rather than let the two tunnel worlds collide. Most terrestrial mammals are much more hesitant about duels, much more willing to give in and give up, or to feign their way out of a fight. I’m no exception. My world isn’t nearly as well defined as that of a molerat, and I haven’t carved out all the paths I’ve ended up choosing, some of them were never my creations at all. I think it must be easier to be so definite when the only changes you can sense are the earth shaking ones.

In a small number of trees in a certain set of mountain ranges in Mexico, the leaves become butterflies every fall. Monarchs, the black and yellow nymphs that float through our backyards during the summer, migrate by the thousands, flying across the ocean on paper-thin wings and whimsical wind currents. They’ll spend the winter clustered in the mountain trees, layer upon layer, until the trunks and branches look like they’ve been clothed for a celebration. The monarchs that migrate have never been in Mexico before, and in fact, their parents had never been in Mexico either — both generations were born into nectar-filled New England summertime. I was also born to a first American summer, and so I feel a certain kinship to these immigrant insects. When the monarchs leave here, it’s to trace a path that only their grandparents, and their grandparents-grandparents have flown before. Flying miles upon miles they’ll arrive in a particular area, an individual mountaintop, perhaps even at a specific tree, and they’ll find it familiar — familial. It’s where their grandparent’s spent last winter — grandparents whose generation ended months before these monarchs hatched. Nobody knows how these monarchs find their way, how it’s possible to inherit a place — but it’s in my genes as well. My grandparents immigrated to Israel, my parents emigrated away again, and I’ve never lived there for more than several months at a time. I imagine the monarchs arriving- the moment of recognition, the sudden sense of home, and I wonder if some day I’ll migrate as well.