It is the first Saturday of the month, so Mom and I go to the pharmacy again. It sits at the side of a steep San Francisco street, with a scratched glass door and graffitied entrance, and always smells like Kills 99.99% Of All Germs Hand Sanitizer inside. 

I like the lady behind the counter. She always looks tired, but each time we come she gives me a sweet lemon candy that tastes like sunshine. She and Mom talk for a while, usually until exactly when the lemon candy finishes melting in my mouth. 

In a white paper bag, the lady arranges two bottles of pills with complicated labels I cannot pronounce, but I can tell that the bag is labeled Lina Xin. Lina is my sister, and she is one of my favorite people because she used to read me stories and give me hugs. 

Mom is quiet on the car ride home. 

I ask, “Do you think Lina will like this month’s pills more than last month’s?” 

“Yes, Lu.” Mom sighs, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “I hope Lina likes it more this month.” 

“I think she will like it if you add honey in the water she drinks it with.” Lina likes honey. I remember. There was one morning when she didn’t get out of bed and cried in her sheets until she fell asleep again. When she woke up in the afternoon with puffy eyes, I brought her honey with animal crackers and she ate all the honey. 

At home, Mom reorganizes the cupboard with pill bottles. Lina is sitting on the carpet in her bedroom, playing an imaginary piano with her right hand on the floor. Spread all over her desk are used tea leaves arranged in pretty patterns and a shattered porcelain bowl. I sit next to her, leaning into her shoulder, and she wraps her left arm around me as we sway silently to an imaginary melody. 

“Lu.” Lina stops swaying. “A luna moth lives for one week.” 

“Okay.” I know luna means moon because Ms. Anderson said so during Language Arts. 

“And then it dies in the shade of a willow… or something…” Her eyebrows furrow and she grabs a fistful of carpet fluff. 

Before I can say anything, Mom calls from the kitchen reminding Lina to take her medicines now, and I feel Lina sag next to me before she stands up. 

Mom brings home more bottles from the pharmacy every month. She explained that Lina can be very sad sometimes and does not sleep normally or play with any friends, but taking the pills

with water will help her. I asked her why Lina was sad, and Mom said that I would not understand because I am only seven. 

-- 

It is midnight when I wake up for water. 

I can hear Lina inhaling and exhaling quickly down the hall, so I peek through her door. The room is dark except for the streetlight through the windows. She is sitting criss-cross applesauce on her bed, elbows on her knees and gripping her waist-length hair with her fists. Her entire body shakes silently. Oh. 

She is in another “episode,” as Mom would call it. 

As she crumples, Lina looks less and less like the sister who taught me to fold paper boats and float them into the bay. Slow, sickening turning motions begin spreading in my stomach–I know I need to hug her. 

I sit quietly beside her and wrap my arms around her shoulders. Warm, wet drops land on my arms as Lina whispers quickly to herself. “How could you have… doesn’t matter… if only… oh god Lina what the-” and then she says a word that Ms. Anderson would frown at and call a no-no word. I flinch, but keep my arms around her until she suddenly shoves me away, grabs the trash can beside her bed, and vomits with an ugly sound. There is a ringing in my ears. 

Lina is strangling the edge of the mattress, her knuckles faintly white. “One day-” Her voice sounds like the crinkling of lemon candy wrappers. “One day I will die, and it will not matter-- to anyone.” 

Her breaths come out shallow and sharp, as if her lungs had forgotten how to keep her alive. 

“I will disintegrate into ash like how moths burn in lamps, and then nothing-- anything-- everything-- why? The universe-- one day, this too shall pass. One day, I’ll pass too. Why is anybody--” 

She runs out of words and gestures helplessly around the room. 

“Lu.” Lina finally looks at me, and in the glow of the streetlight, her eyes are like glistening river stones. “I am a luna moth.” 

-- 

It is Saturday morning again, but Mom says she is going to a different medicine shop this month

without a nice lady who will give me lemon candies, so I stay home with Lina. Mom is still trying to help her, so I stay quiet about how I think medicines do not work. 

That evening, Lina comes out of her room and we have tea and crackers together on the porch. I like the warm breeze, the distant barking of a dog, and Lina beside me. A black speck falls into her tea. 

“There’s a moth drowning in your tea!” I exclaim as its wings frantically make small ripples in her mug. 

Lina freezes, staring. 

“No.” Her voice cracks. She jolts up, scoops the moth out, and sets it on her tea napkin as its drying wings gently flutter. “It’s beautiful.” 

“It is really cute,” I offer. 

“No, I mean… it’s still alive, and it’s still trying.” She clears her throat. “That’s why it’s beautiful.” I glance up at her and find that she is smiling. Lina is lovely when she smiles. 

We wait together in the sunset until the moth flies from the napkin towards the purple evening sky.