The Moth That Looked Like Moonlight

I spotted this beauty clinging to the siding by our family room window—last summer, on one of those heavy, sun-baked days when even the breeze forgets to move.

A Luna moth.

With wings like pale jade silk and tails that trailed like something out of a fairytale. It was huge—easily the size of my hand—and so still, it almost looked like it had been carefully placed there by a decorator with a flair for woodland magic.

I’d completely forgotten about it, honestly—until just this week, when I stumbled across the photo while scrolling through my phone. And instantly, the whole moment came rushing back—especially how our cat, Cashmere, had been utterly captivated. She perched on the window sill for hours, eyes wide and tail twitching, mesmerized by this silent visitor just inches away on the other side of the glass.

Even after the moth was gone, Cashmere kept checking—day after day—for nearly a week. Waiting. Hoping. As if maybe it might return, just once more.

And truthfully? I’ve been doing the same.

There was something sacred in its stillness. The long, curling tails like moonlit ribbons, the delicate antennae flared like feathered brushstrokes. It didn’t flutter. It didn’t flinch. It simply was—as if the world had paused just long enough to let me notice.

I’ve read that Luna moths don’t eat. Don’t sting. Don’t live long. Their whole adult life spans just a few days—a brief, glimmering chapter spent in quiet wonder. That kind of fleeting beauty carries its own weight. It makes you stop. Makes you feel a little lucky just to have crossed paths.

And so I stood there. One part human, one part spellbound. Letting this creature remind me: not all magic needs to last. Some of it is meant to appear, gently, and then go.

I haven’t seen another since. But ever since that day, I’ve been hoping.

– The Wallflower