The lovebugs have arrived.

They seem unusually interested in the window next to my writing desk. This isn’t necessarily good for my windowsills. Or my deadlines.

The little bend in the window screen draws them in to somewhat of a dry aquarium between the window and the mesh. I have hundreds of visitors each day.

I can’t stop watching them. I even Googled them. Everyone knows that lovebugs mate in the air. But did you know that the males die shortly thereafter, still stuck to their mate, and their dead bodies are dragged around by the females until she lays her eggs and dies herself?

So here I am, in the midst of a 1200-word article on the benefits of cardio drumming, trying to figure out if one-half of the conjoined couple I’m looking at is no longer of this world. Unfortunately, this is no passing glance. I’m peering at each set of crawling legs like an entomologist, trying to see if they are working in tandem or if one of is merely being dragged along for the ride.

I ponder the stories of the lone flying creatures. Is she looking for her mate, a prized catch no one has claimed? Talk about pressure to settle down. We worry when we haven’t met “the one” by 30. She only has five days at the most to meet someone and create offspring before she dies.

Chances are, though, that those flying solo are males. You definitely have to be an alpha bug to catch your mate. Other male lovebugs are fighting for the same female like they are on the newest season of The Bachelorette.  But if they can hold on for just four minutes, no one can come between them. If only humans could cement a relationship after four minutes.

I am sad for these mothers who will never see their babies. I know it’s completely irrational; bugs don’t have any bones, much less a maternal one. But these bugs have become part of my landscape and have captured a tiny place in my heart.

They provide a welcome distraction when words elude me. They blend in with the nature of this beautiful country home God has blessed me with. They are a sign of a new season, one with promises of bonfires and changing leaves.

They are my sweethearts, my lovebugs.





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