She surveyed her specimens: seven Mason jars filled with formaldehyde and lanternflies in various stages of development lined the tiny shelf on her secretary desk. The best of the mature specimens she’d carefully dried and pinned, wings spread, to velvet and then placed in small, gold antique frames. These hung over the Mason jars like portraits of fine ladies in kimonos. She leaned back in her chair and smiled. She didn’t need any more lanternflies; yet if she came across an especially beautiful one, she had one more frame that she kept wrapped in robin’s-egg-blue tissue paper and tucked away in her sock drawer.

Fran asked forgiveness from every lanternfly she killed. She knew they hadn’t asked to be born here. They had not come over in the shipment of stone to find their way into the roots and trunks of trees, unlike their predecessors, who had stealthily hidden, red wings folded, camouflaged by gray capes. Her lanternflies were the victims of ancestral dispersion. Still, she would kill them and report them.

When Fran first started making her reports, she called the local office and was proud talking to whomever picked up. She was a soldier against the invasion.

“You deserve a medal,” a conservation officer once said.

Fran beamed. “No, no,” she said. “It’s all of you, our environmental protectors, who deserve the medals.”

Now the reports were all done online, and no one encouraged her to find more or congratulated her for being so diligent. She uploaded pictures and filled out the required text boxes, but she was beginning to feel like no one was even opening her files.

She could stop killing them.

She could let the trees be damaged, let the insects breed.

There was, though, that off-chance that someone at the DEEP had taken notice of her. Perhaps her name came up in their weekly meetings, which she imagined they must have, sitting around a table, photos of marshes and wildlife around them.

“Thank God for that woman,” someone would say.

“Fran?” Someone else knew her name.

“That’s the one. Thank God for Fran and her vigilance.”

This imaginary meeting was enough to keep her going, to keep her killing.

Fran emerged from her reverie and reached for a jar. Each jar held approximately fifty lanternflies. When she first began collecting them, she was exact. But as the years went on, she’d sometimes put one into a jar already at its max, or close a jar that maybe held forty-nine. It was difficult to count the floating insects, though in the early days, she did just that—counted them at the end of each day. Like sheep.

Fran opened a jar and inhaled the formaldehyde. She was a careful undertaker who wouldn’t leave the bugs to wither and rot. Wouldn’t throw them into a pen of chickens to be pecked at, swallowed, and digested. No. She carefully sprayed her specimens with insecticide, watched them go rigid, and then, with tweezers, plucked them from the leaf, the tree, or the stem, and gingerly rinsed them clean. Only then would she take the corpse to her office, photograph it against a square of black linen, introduce it to the others, already clean and floating, and drop it into the eternal fluid. Business came next. She would upload the photos, go to the reporting portal, and chronicle her find.

Fran missed the days of talking to the DEEP. She looked at her phone, which held the group’s number. “Should I?” she said aloud. She turned to her specimens. “Should I?” she asked them. She tapped the number. An automated response began. She waited until she heard “Reporting Invasive Species,” tapped five, as directed—only to hear, “Please go to our website at . . . .” “Dammit,” she said, hanging up. Then, turning again to her dead companions, “Where are the humans?”

Going to the closet, she looked at the older jars, which she’d boxed up and labeled by year: 2014, 2015, 2016 . . . .  She kept the current year’s jar on the narrow desk shelf so she could look at them. They watched her pay bills and type emails to her family. She watched them float. Beautiful, delicate ballerinas. “What do I do with you?” she asked them. “No one seems to care anymore.” She walked to the window to admire the Fire Cherry that reached up to her office.

“I suppose,” she said to her specimens, “I ought to figure something out.”  She contemplated her years of killing, collecting, and counting. She would turn 70 come winter. She wondered what her family would think if she died in her sleep. They’d come to clean out her closet and find the jars. “They’d think I was out of my mind,” she said. “Off my rocker.” A small branch tapping the glass brought her back to the window. It was getting cloudy, and the sky was turning autumn gray.  She opened the window and took a deep breath, inhaling a familiar scent. “There it is,” she said. “Rain for sure.”

She picked up the heavy box filled with last year’s specimen, set it on the desk, and watched it as if it had answers. “Go ahead,” she said, “tell me what to do.” But she already knew. No one was interested in the lanternflies anymore. Over the summer, she hiked the fourteen trails in town. Twice. Clean. No infestation. She was sure they were out there, hiding, but she only managed to collect two. They made this year’s jar look pathetic. The sparsity embarrassed her.

Fran sighed and went downstairs to the mudroom, pulled on her old wellies and her gardening gloves, donned her baseball cap with the frayed brim, rolled up her sleeves, and went out to the garage, where she retrieved a shovel. Undeterred by a drop or two of rain, she walked to the backyard and stomped her foot. Where? Where oh where oh where? Too hard, here. She began walking the yard, stopping occasionally to tap the earth with the shovel. Eventually, it sank ever so slightly. “Here,” she said.

The rain began in earnest midway through Fran’s project. Except for her feet, she quickly became soaked, a rivulet of water running into her shirt and down her spine. She removed her gloves and stared at the bulging blue veins in her hands. Weakened veins, she supposed, were the human equivalent of abscission. She patted her cap, grateful that her hair was still thick, unlike that of many of her friends, and flipped back the long braid swinging over her shoulder. Then she replaced her gloves and resumed digging.

How deep? she wondered. The earth was soft thanks to the rain. She pushed the shovel in, scooped out the dirt, and threw it into a pile. She was making a mess, but it was the right time of year for messes. The weather would be cool enough soon to sow grass seed. No one would ever suspect that thousands of dead insects were buried here. She halted her shoveling; the rain let up. Two weeks ago, she would have been able to work longer, but the days were getting shorter, and she knew she’d have only a few more hours of light. Already tired, she resisted the impulse to find someplace to sit, dropped the shovel, and walked back to the house to retrieve a box. She wondered if she could even get the boxes out of the closet, down the two flights of stairs from the office, and into the backyard. “You can do it,” she sang. It was a little ditty she’d made up for whenever she got overwhelmed: “You can do it, dadadada. You can do it.” She sang it all the way to her office, where she finally sat down. “Can I, though?” she asked her specimens. But now that she’d dug a hole big enough to bury a human, she felt compelled. She hoisted the 2024 box and used her hip to balance it. I’ll be bruised tomorrow, she thought.

Making her way down the stairs, she rested occasionally, pushing the box against the wall and using her thigh to keep it from falling. “You can do it, dadadadada. You can do it.”

Reaching the mudroom, she dropped the box onto the bench, the jars within clinking together. But when she peeked inside, nothing was broken. I’m calling Jonathan, she thought, grabbing the phone out of her wet back pocket. Her neighbor, Jonathan, was newly married to Joseph, a lovely young man, whom Fran was still getting to know.

“Hey, Fran.” She missed the days when it was a surprise who was on the other end of the line. Nowadays, people only answered their phones when they recognized the number.
“Hello, Jonathan. I need a favor.”

“Sure thing. What’s up?” It sounded to Fran like Jonathan was running. Maybe on a treadmill. Maybe on the road. Sometimes she’d see him go by while she drank her morning coffee.

“You can call me when you’re free,” she said. His multitasking irritated her.

“I’m good. What’cha need?” He’d stopped running, or doing whatever it was he was doing. He gave her his full attention.

“I have some heavy boxes I need brought downstairs. I’ve managed to get one, but…”

Jonathan interrupted. “I got you! Stop hauling them. I’m already sweaty, so, if that doesn’t bother you, I’ll be right over.” Fran saw him waving from his back door. She waved back.

Jonathan surveyed the hole Fran had dug in the mud. Burying something?”

“I know it’s a bit odd, but I have a lot of jars to bury. They’re . . . full of insects.”

“Bugs?”

“Yes. I’ve been collecting them for years.”

“I didn’t know you were an entomologist.”

“I’m not. Just an old woman trying to save the state from infestation.”

Jonathan nodded. “Gypsy moths?”

“SLF.”

“SLF?”

Fran was already walking toward the house. Not much for small talk, she was ready to get burying before she lost any more daylight.

“Spotted Lantern Flies,” she said over her shoulder.

“Damn buggers. I’ve heard about them.”

Fran held the door open, waving Jonathan inside.

“I’ve never been in your house,” he said. Her place was nice. Not a lot of tchotchkes. Art on the wall. Real art, not posters. Not a single embroidered pillow.

“I’ve never been in yours,” Fran said. They laughed as if they’d take care of this later, which they both knew was a lie. They were over-the-fence, driveway-chatting neighbors, waves, nods; they weren’t visiting, stay and take a load off kind of neighbors

Fran walked into the office and stood by her desk, watching Jonathan to gauge his reaction. Eyebrows raised, he picked up one of the jars.

“Wow. You do have a lot of bugs.”

“These are only the recent ones.”

He examined the framed specimens. “They’re kind of pretty. I mean, for such destructive bastards, they have a certain beauty.”

“I think so,” Fran said. “But they’re invasive and will kill the trees.”

Jonathan sniffed.

“It’s formaldehyde,” Fran said. “I’ve gotten used to it; I don’t even smell it anymore.

I need to get rid of the bugs. Am I to let the dead build up in my house? What will my children think?”

Jonathan nodded. understood that she was thinking out loud.  “Box and all?”

“I think that would be best.”

“Will it kill the grass?” he asked. “The formaldehyde, I mean.”

“They bury dead people, don’t they?”

Fran sensed his reluctance. “I can get them into the hole if you bring down the boxes,” she said, hoping to ease his environmental conscience.

Jonathan nodded and headed for the stairs.

As Jonathan crossed between the office and the yard, hauling box after box, Fran stood by the hole, looking down into it. With the boxes stacked beside it, she could see it was too small. She decided to bury the jars, without the boxes. Though she had planned on burying her collection by year, Jonathan was, understandably, putting the boxes down anywhere. She opened the box nearest her, 2016. The jars were filled. It was a good year for the insects, but not so good for the environment, Fran thought. She lay on her belly and dropped each jar carefully into the mud. That box alone took up half the length of the hole.

“I’ll layer them like lasagna,” she said. “Jars. Dirt. Jars. Dirt.”

“Are you fermenting something?”

Joseph had come over, no doubt to find Jonathan. Fran had only met him once, when he and Jonathan came outside as she was weeding.  That day, Jonathan introduced Joseph as his husband and showed her pictures of their wedding on his phone. She wondered whether they had a physical album as she did, or if this was it. Then she wondered where her album was, and guessed it was buried behind the boxes.

Joseph picked up a jar. “Bugs?”

Fran saw his horrified expression. “Indeed,” she said. She took the jar from him and placed it in the hole.

“Is Jonathan here?” Joseph asked.

“He is.” That from Jonathan, as he came from the house, toting another box, and put it down next to his husband. Fran saw the look between the two of them, like one she used to share with her own husband.

“You’re aiding and abetting this massacre?” Joseph asked.

“God, no,” Jonathan said. “These have been dead for years. Right, Fran?”

“Yep. Unbox some jars, would you?” she asked. “I’d like to get as many buried as possible before it gets too dark.” But when she looked up at the tree line, she could see their wasn’t much time at all.

“What are these?” Joseph asked.

“Spotted Lantern Flies,” Jonathan responded.

“I just read an article about these. They’ve been washing up on the beaches in New Jersey. Around here, too,” Joseph said. He pulled out his phone, found the article, and handed the device to Fran. She didn’t read the article — because the phone screen told her how late it was.

“I’ve kept you far too long. It’s well past dinner.” She began to get up and realized she’d lost the ability to do so gracefully. Joseph gently took her elbow to help. Even five years ago, she would have pulled away; now, she allowed him to help her. Standing, she looked at the article: Spotted Lanternflies Stage a Siege on Beach. Dated the previous week, it reported that dead lanternflies had washed up on a beach only two miles away. Further south, they were crawling on houses, cars, and the necks of tourists.

“I’ve only found two this year,” Fran said, still looking at the phone.

“Maybe you’ve been looking in the wrong places,” Jonathan said.

“Maybe my sight isn’t as good as it used to be.”

Joseph gently pulled his phone out of Fran’s hand. “Your sight is fine. Maybe you just need a different hobby.”

“True,” Jonathan took Fran’s arm and began walking with her towards her house. “It might be time for you to find a happier pastime.”

Fran cringed. “I’ll look into it. A tree probably blew into the Sound.”

“What’s that?” Joseph had taken her other arm.

“The tree was probably infested, and a storm blew it into the Sound.”

“But would they all wash up at the same time?”

Fran turned back to look at the mess she’d made in her yard, wishing she hadn’t filled so many jars.

“Maybe somebody dumped them there,” she said. “You didn’t do that, did you?” Jonathan asked.

“Not me. I floated them in formaldehyde. I could have taken them to the beach and given them a burial at sea. But now they’re contaminated. I have to bury them, jars and all.”

“Your intentions were good,” Jonathan said, nudging her towards the door.

“There are so many,” she said.

“We’ll help you,” Joseph offered.

“Tomorrow,” Jonathan said. “We’ll start again tomorrow.”

They stood at the back door waiting for Fran to go inside. “Would you like to come in?” she asked.

The two men looked at each other. “No, thank you,” Joseph answered. “I have dinner waiting.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Tomorrow,” Jonathan told her.

“Yes, tomorrow.”

Fran waited for them to leave. She watched as their kitchen light went on and they maneuvered around each other, setting the table. After they sat down to eat. she went to her bedroom and opened her sock drawer. The robin’s egg blue tissue paper was crumpled a bit, but it made no difference. She unfolded the paper and took the frame — the most beautiful one in Fran’s opinion —  down to the mudroom. She put on a jacket, tucked the frame into one pocket, grabbed a flashlight, and headed to her car.

“Just one more,” Fran said to herself and the night, and started for the beach.

Love Letters to the Wild

by Janet MacFadyen

    Love Letters to the Wild traces the essential bond between human beings and the natural environment. The letters and poems of this volume are book-ended by two long letters, beginning with storm clouds in Death Valley and ending at the poet's home during a catastrophic deluge. The book sets a personal joy and gratitude against a hunger for belonging, and against the relentless destruction of all that is non-human. "Janet MacFadyen’s newest collection seeks and invites us to be “pried open,” to “see how leaves underfoot lay down their bodies as a sentence.” The letters of this collection—to storm clouds, woods, gray light, wasps, an old house—seek to still time…for a moment of reckoning with fish, swans, squirrels, wind, and chickadees. I’m grateful for this meditation, this call to attention.” — Elizabeth Bradfield, author of SOFAR: Poems, and co-creator of Cascadia Field Guide: Art, Ecology, Poetry “…each of these lyrical pieces invites us back into embodied experience of the physical world, until we realize that we are every element that surrounds us—“the parched forest... cricket wings... a dried up stream.”... Spend some time with this gorgeous volume, and you will soon throw open the door, aching for more contact with the wild Earth again.” — James Crews, author of Unlocking the Heart For more, visit https://www.dosmadres.com/shop/love-letters-to-the-wild-by-janet-macfadyen/ Available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, and your local independent bookstore.

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