25 April 2026
Early this morning, as I came downstairs, I noticed something lying next to the fridge—a cockroach, still alive, though half of its body was gone. There were stains around it, and it was clear someone had accidentally stepped on it the night before.
What struck me wasn’t the scene itself, but the fact that it was still alive.
Later, as I began sweeping the floor, I knew I needed to remove it. I picked it up carefully, about to throw it into the rubbish bin, but hesitated. It was still alive. Something about that made me pause. It didn’t feel right to end its life that way—abrupt, discarded, unnoticed.
Instead, I wrapped it gently in tissue and placed it on the windowsill. It was quiet there, undisturbed by people or our dogs. A small, still space where it could go through the last part of its life in peace.
It was a simple act, almost insignificant, yet it stayed with me.
Today is ANZAC Day. The morning rain fell steadily, and the house felt slower than usual. My son was still tired from his school camp earlier in the week, and I woke with a slight headache. We didn’t make it to the dawn service this year.
And yet, in an unexpected way, that small encounter felt like a quiet reminder.
There was something in that fragile, broken creature—still holding on—that echoed a kind of resilience. Not heroic in a grand sense, but persistent, enduring. It made me think of the spirit we remember today: the strength to carry on, even in the most difficult conditions, and the dignity that can exist even in suffering.
Sometimes, reflection doesn’t come from ceremonies or planned moments. Sometimes, it finds us quietly, in the most ordinary corners of our day.
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