The story so far:
I’ve spent too much time chronicling the decay of the bid heirloom plant. Today, I look at the little roma grape. Inspecting some new growth for pests, spots, or any anomalies, I see an interesting fly with a yellow, arrow shaped head, eyes set far apart on the sides. Its wings are opaque green, they remind me of the Vaseline glass my Great Grandma used to have in her curio. With its two front legs it grasps the tip of a fresh leaf. I’m amazed that it’s letting me inspect it so closely and assume that its torpor has to do with the unusually cool morning. I take a chance and pluck the leaf from the plant. The fly doesn’t move. As I hold the leaf up to my eyes, I see that the bug has been bitten in half. Its abdomen, no doubt the juicy good part, is missing. Yet still it grasps the leaf. A death grip that stirs sadness and incites curiosity.