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Something moved in the corner of the window as I washed my hands. My eyes were relaxed into a soft focus so as not to see the dirty dishes piled up in the sink. After a long winter with no buzzing or beating of wings to lull me into submission, the skittering bug caught my attention right away.

Leaning in for a closer look, I recognized the distinct pattern of its wings. Not a fly. Not a bee. Not a beetle, nor a gnat.

I finally decided it must be one of the lacewings in my son’s bug book. A dainty member of the order of net-winged insects, they’ve been around since the Permian Period, survived the Mesozoic Era and still thrive in climates as diverse as tropical Florida and the fickle subarctic.

As for my lacewing, I noticed that the latticework frame of its wings was covered in a transparent linen-like fabric tinged green. More specifically spring green. It wore a pair of long antennae thrown back as if to declare the casual nature of its weekend wardrobe, an ode to spring fever.

The lacewing at the window did not make me excited about the changing of the season, the return of the insects. Yes, it came as the first warm weekend of April took back all the fresh new snow, unrequested by me and frankly as stinky as a guest who’s overstayed his welcome. The doors in our well-insulated house were thrown open. The thermostat buried in the shallow end.

Yet I did not smell the potential fresh scent; feel the bright, warm mornings warmed over by a loyal sun. I didn’t see the promise of trees cast in a verdant sheen, unfurling their juicy leaves. I did not feel the hope of new life.

Instead there was gravel piling up in gritty swirls along the edges of the street. There were muddy puddles, ambrosia to restless kids, but perspiring oil fuel and toxins in the eyes of us mothers. Last year’s leaves, a brown film on haggard snow piles. Grimy sidewalks. Dirty cars.

Inside, too. On every surface a film of dust, a constant reminder of unfinished chores. The bright rays of the sun intensified through the window panes, spotlighting mites as they swam through the currents of air in their migration patterns.

Now that the sun is back, I am reminded of the awkwardness of this phase. Like adolescence, I must learn to see the beauty that will be born of this transition. The gangly limbs and self-conscious smiles of breakup will settle into a smooth and productive growing season.

Instead spring, celebrated by the poets and the songwriters, feels almost unbearable to me. A reminder of another year gone by. More of a memento than winter — the dying of the year. More of a souvenir than any calendar exchange or midnight countdown. This is when I realize that someday I will die. There will be one less spring in my life.

Maybe that’s why this present lacewing specimen, with its slender pea-colored wings and jaunty splayed legs, did not leave me content. Even though they are known as world-class aphid hunters, and although my husband has waged war on our chokecherry trees, culling them back to just a few soldiers, I know they will benefit from these reinforcements.

Virginia Woolf examined her own insect companion in an essay published in 1942, the year following her death. She wrote about watching as a moth, uncharacteristically flying by day, danced and zigzagged to show us “the true nature of life.” She marveled at the strangeness of its simple activities, the pathetic vision of this tiny bead of pure life that could have been born in any other shape.

She stayed with the insect as it died. Examined its countenance as it struggled against the failings of its own wings. Got angry at its helplessness. Even tried to rouse the moth by prodding it with a pencil.

I did not bear witness for my lacewing. I did not side with life as I watched a gigantic effort put forth by an insignificant insect. I did not watch it fly away, nor do I know that it was somehow tricked by the early thaws of February, just like me, and did not endure long enough to feast on the aphids our yard will offer this summer.

Because even as I complain about how long break up will take and jiggle my legs in agitation, uneasy with the anticipation of long walks in the summer and plants growing in the garden, I can share Woolf’s declaration.

In remembrance of both our insects, I can observe that life is strange. Death is strange, too. And definitely stronger than any of us.