Caterpillars

I remember the time my Dad lit the caterpillars on fire. They were in a tin coffee can that he found in the shed. He said they were killing the fruit of our apple tree, so we had to kill them. I helped him pluck them off the leaves and watched as he dumped them wriggling and writhing into the can. We poured some gas on them to make sure they burned real good.

Do caterpillars breathe through their skin?

Behind us was the blue shed with grape vines all over it. We never ate any of the grapes, just let them fall off and rot. Some new vines tried to sprout up from the seeds here and there, but my Mom told us to pull them up when we saw them. Inside the shed was darkness and mold; it smelled like dry grass and rat poison. I had to be careful not to fall through the crack on the floor—the place rats went to die.

I don't know why, but I kicked the can over when it was lit on fire; I just did it. My Dad had left me, a young boy, with a can full of bugs on fire. How could I not? It spread a lot faster than I thought it would. It started out small but quickly became a mini blaze, consuming the dry grass all around.

The caterpillars were still alive though, very much alive. One burst open and its guts spread out like an oriental fan.

I heard my Dad running down the stairs, swearing and yelling. He asked me what I was thinking, how I could be so stupid, and what good it was to kick over a can full of flames.

I shrugged. Muttered something.

As he yelled, I looked across the fence and wondered if somewhere in the trees the man with the green hair was watching us. My face went even redder with embarrassment. He was the one we always talked about, me and the other boys. We knew where he had been because his hair could always been seen hanging on the branches of cedar trees. We never found him, or saw him, but I was sure he was watching me that day.

We put the fire out with buckets of water, but the ground was scorched, and a patch of the lawn was ruined. Black and charred. Much more dead than the brown summer grass. It stayed like that for years.

Sometimes when I sat under the apple tree in the years to come, I'd see caterpillars chewing on the leaves. I watched as they gorged themselves to the point of almost bursting. Some spun cocoons, getting ready for a long rest in our apple tree.

It was easy for me to remember the infernal scene, and recall the curses and shouts of my Dad as he ran down the stairs. But the caterpillars don't have to worry about being burned alive any time soon. My Dad moved out ages ago.

- The Frosty Hound