"The Unfortunate Dragonfly" by Nhi Nguyen (Kennebec County Winner)
I pity the dragonfly caught between the nimble fingers of my six-year-old self. My most vivid memory at that age was the sound of buzzing—not the type of buzzing bees make. Rather, it was the hum of fast wings flapping together, dancing in the waning evening light. A cluster of dragonflies weaved around my white picket fence, and I snatched one by its tail out of the air. He didn’t deserve the fate he was dealt, having to be conscious while I picked his body apart, piece by piece, wing by wing. His dark compound eyes stared blankly back at me, pleading for his life, before I dropped his inert body to the ground and scurried back inside the house.
There’s an old Vietnamese adage my grandmother used to hum, “Chuồn chuồn bay thấp thì mưa, bay cao thì nắng, bay vừa thì râm,” meaning “dragonfly flies low means rain, flies high means sun, flies middle means clouds.”
True to her word, it was a cloudy day that day, the type of clouds that promised heavy rain. All I wanted to know was how this tiny little creature—just fitting within my cupped hands—could determine the mercurial mood of the weather. His existence defied my childish reasoning, and my curiosity led me to commit an act I regret to this day. Safe to say, my curiosity wasn’t satisfied, and the dragonfly died in vain.
…
A white picket fence no longer separates the neighbor’s house from my own. It has been replaced by pine trees soaring to the sky, dimming the noise of the nearby traffic. The once-cracked ceiling—a by-product of Vietnam's sweltering heat—no longer greets me in the morning. Now, I wake up to a pink one. I wake up to a home that shelters me from Maine’s brutal winter.
Now, I have a new stepdad.
Initially, I was terrified—but not of the seemingly endless plane ride, not of the way the cold seeped into the marrow of my bones, not the flurry of a language that melted from my understanding faster than the snow outside my window. I was terrified of having nothing in common with him. But I soon realized that curiosity was an attractive force, like gravity, that guided the connections between my parents and me.
This connection was most vibrant on Saturday evenings.
…
The TV screen cast colorful shadows against the darkened walls, and voices clamored over each other to be heard. An episode of “Common Knowledge” captured ninety percent of our attention, while popcorn occupied the remainder. There were shrieks of, “In yo face,” (mostly from me) at the correct answer, and “I definitely knew that” (mostly my dad) at the wrong ones. My mom was half-refereeing, half-wondering what she’d signed up for while laughing at our antics.
In that room, I felt alive.
I felt the same buzzing as that overcast evening eleven years ago. This time, it wasn’t a sound but a palpable excitement that hung in the air—created by the friendly competition and shared inquisitiveness while watching a show. Glancing over at my parents, I realized my initial fear of disconnectedness had long faded, giving way to bonds that unite us as a family.
…
As I stood in my flower garden on a spring evening, droplets of water caught on the wings of a dragonfly, and the memories reemerged. I’m a few inches taller. My hair cascades past my shoulders. Nevertheless, I’m still that curious six-year-old girl (admittedly, with less murderous tendencies), still trying to answer the next question. I recall my grandmother’s words and the unexpected veracity behind them: by observing nature, we learn to navigate through the world.
Uncertainty looms in my future, but if I hold onto my curiosity and continue to follow the dragonfly toward the sun, I can confront the nature of life's unpredictability. I promise, though, no dragonfly will be hurt in the making of my future.
Nhi Nguyen is a senior at Oak Hill High School. In “The Unfortunate Dragonfly,” she writes about the invisible string of curiosity that ties her family and her past memories together. Writing has always been a cathartic experience for her, and she can never write without her mug of hot chocolate. When Nhi is not writing, she can be found nose-deep in a book, or laughing with her friends.