A moth landed on me. It was a big moth—about the size of a baseball. It was purplish, with a beautiful set of wings, two bulbous eyes, and delicate antennae.

I was sort of mesmerized. Nothing beautiful has ever landed on me before, unless you count the way local pigeons have sometimes used me for target practice.

The moth would not fly away, so I presented my hand to the moth. It crawled onto my finger.

Then, it just looked at me.

I spent several minutes admiring the insect from all angles. I lifted it up to the light and inspected its thorax. I observed its dainty forewings and its magenta hindwings, my nose only centimeters from its body.

It just kept staring at me.

“You can fly away if you want,” I said, since all moths speak English.

Then, I gently flicked my wrist to help launch the moth into the air. But the moth did not let go. It just stayed perched on my finger. I flicked my finger a few more times, but the moth was making it clear, it was not interested in flying away.

So I named him Mo. I went back inside with a moth attached to my finger.

I made supper, one-handed, with Mo firmly affixed to my left index finger. Mo was just hanging out as I made mac and cheese on the stove.

With my free hand, I texted Roxie. Roxie is an 11-year-old moth expert, and we are also cousins. She is deeply into moths. She raises them from baby larvae.

I took a picture of Mo and asked Rox what kind of moth he was. She said that Mo was a huckleberry sphinx moth, which is a variety of hawkmoth. They only live for a few weeks.

“You’re a huckleberry sphinx moth,” I informed Mo.

He didn’t seem impressed.

Mo and I ate supper together. I ate with my right hand while watching television. Mo stayed planted on my left hand, watching old movies with me. Mo appeared to really like Jimmy Stewart. Who doesn’t?

When it was time for bed, I crawled into bed and read a book one-handed, with my Mo-hand resting on a pillow because my arm was getting tired.

Just before bedtime, I knew it was time to let Mo return to his world. As much as I love him, I reminded Mo that he was a moth. And I think, deep inside his heart, he knew I was right.

I went outside into the night. Mo still would not leave my finger, so I waved my arm in the air. He wouldn’t let go.

So I explained that Mo could not stay with me.

Yes, I reminded Mo, I understand that it’s difficult to leave the warmth and security of my giant hand, to go out into the world. But you were not created to hide. You weren’t created to play it safe. You were made for an adventure. You were created to do something remarkable. Something so special, so individualized, that only YOU can do it.

Yes, you’ll make mistakes. Certainly, you’ll get it wrong sometimes. But, oh, what fun you’ll have.

“You have to trust me, Mo,” I said. “You need to make every second count. You don’t have nearly as long as you think you do.”

Mo seemed to get the point. Soon, his little body started vibrating. His wings started fluttering. Then he started moving his head around. He looked at me for a few moments, and—you’re going to think I’m a weirdo—but something passed between us.

“You got this, Mo,” I said.

And as Mo flew away, I realized I wasn’t really talking to Mo.