There are caterpillars on the grape vine. They are amazing. They are so liddle.
‘Why are they so liddle?’
‘Where’s his mum? Where’s his eyes? Where’s her arms?’
The caterpillars are a nuisance. But today they are astounding. They have a looping liquid walk, so hip that small children must imitate it.
They are the colour of pests.
But this one is crimson, emerald, gold, charcoal, the colour of bees, the colour of lego, of lollies, of excavators, of liddle amazing things. My grandsons hold out grubby hands to help him from leaf to leaf. They offer him extra leaves because she has no mum. They look for her nest, they plan to make him a better house – with a door. Her will love it.
They watch him eat, leaning so close that surely the caterpillar must sense something, but it swings its enormous eyes around and down again, serene over its leafy cabbage meal, warm under the hot breath of my grandsons who won’t come away in case a bit of life happens, and they miss it.
Later they tell Pa, ‘There’s a caterpillar on your stuff.’
‘He is. He’s eating everything, her is.’
They are gleeful. Then they go back to sweeping, back to the sandpit, back to the marble run, the biscuits, and sunlight coming through the bathroom window and lighting up the soggy face washer and somebody’s hat left in the sink and the tap still dripping all over everything.