A large black fly has emerged in the greenhouse during these first days of February, and it proceeds to explore the rest of our home, partial to the kitchen and the bathroom.
The family rightly wants the creature dispatched or at least relegated to the out-of-doors. But I am uneasy about killing a harbinger of spring, and the firstborn – under this roof – of the new year.
So far the winter had been gentle; the fly must know what she is doing; she probably forecasts more by her surprise appearance than I could ever calculate with my charts. I am therefore remiss in my duty to get rid of the visitor. Maybe she will just go away, I say.
But as I sit in the greenhouse, typing my newspaper column two hours before sunrise, the fly is not only still here, she has become quite friendly, has taken a liking to me and to my colorful computer screen. She keeps reminding me of my duty to protect her, and of the dire meteorological and personal consequences of any aggression.
She zooms back and forth from my desk to the lamps in two other parts of the room, enjoys the air around the warm wood stove, returns after a few minutes to check up on me. Then she goes off to explore the geraniums, maybe observing the perennial aphids, maybe spying the one or two camel-back crickets that have found sanctuary among the flower pots.
Sometimes she’s quiet. Once in a while she buzzes. At the moment, she doesn’t seem interested in contaminating food or spreading germs. She’s both coy and obtrusive, elusive and forward. It would be unthinkable that she had nothing to tell me. It is early in the morning, and we are alone. There is no one to see us together. Momentarily free from social expectations and responsibility, I can embrace the first fly of the year without remorse or guilt, smile at her attention, identify with her excitement at being alive in the artificial summer of my tomato and pepper plants, listen for her secret message.