When I was young, I found a butterfly.
Immediately, it was mine. In my tiny boat with a family friend, I scooped it up from the murky water where it fluttered, and then, I sat perched on the edge of the gunwale, staring into the beady eyes of my newly-discovered creature. It was small but magnificent, filling the edges of my vision from the proximity I didn’t realize we had.
It became my goal to bring it comfort. I plucked a leaf from the lake’s edge for it to sit on. I hoped it was happy. Persistence crowded my mind as I thought, “I am your new mother; I will care for you from now on.”
Unfortunately, I lacked the knowledge that the place where we were, Tripod Reservoir, had already claimed my butterfly. Its fate was sealed before I had even known the rip in its wings or the dapple of orange on its right side.
Driven by naivety, I sat on the boat all day. I spent every moment caring for my butterfly. I lost my sandals to muddy quicksand as I collected milkweed for it to feed on; I cradled it between my palms, careful not to touch its wings. It was stoic and strong, and it was mine—surely, it was mine?
At the end of the day, its fate caught up. I watched as my butterfly, with its faded, torn wings, disintegrated from its place beside me. I didn’t know a butterfly could do that.
Suddenly, I was aware that it never belonged to me.
That moment has never left me. Even years later, I remember the clutch of the mud, the wilt of the flowers, and the rip on its wings. I’ve always wondered if I was the reason the butterfly broke.
The truth is that butterflies are fragile. A gust of wind, dip in water, or gentle tap can lead them to demise. This butterfly had undergone all three—a windy day had carried it into the lake, which held fast against its desperate flutter, and my unknowing scoop had brushed its wings just enough to damage them.
Ever since then, I’ve been scared of butterflies. I avoid them at all costs.
Still, they come to me.
Butterflies come to me in dreams; they whisper of love and forgiveness and kindness. They come to me in the summer when they rest on my shoulder, taking a breath, telling me they aren’t scared of me. Butterflies come to me and have never stopped, even after I broke one; sometimes, I question them, but they remind me it’s okay.
And as they flit around my ears, carefree, knowing my story, they remind me of trust.
