It’s a rainy, gloomy Friday morning. We need the rain, and truth be told, it’s nice to listen to in my pajamas. Still, I can’t help but crave a little brightness. I wrote this short piece yesterday, a quick story about a girl and a butterfly taking a walk together. Imagining the butterfly’s wings is a nice bright spot on a cloudy morning. I hope you enjoy it. Have a good weekend, everyone.
The sun shone over the Pacific on a cold morning. Meghan pulled her sweater close as she exited her cabin, walking towards the main lodge for breakfast. How could a morning look so warm and feel so frigid?
It was a mystery that occupied Meghan’s mind to the point where she almost missed a flash of orange on the ground — one that was dangerously close to disappearing under her shoe.
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, even though she knew the butterfly couldn’t understand her. The butterfly’s wings trembled as it tottered on its legs, twitching for sunlight.
Meghan looked up at the trees. What she’d thought was a blanket of dead leaves was actually a cluster of monarchs, all sleeping on the tree they’d chosen as a pit stop for their annual migration. All were still, waiting for the afternoon sun.
One hadn’t waited long enough. Meghan crouched towards the ground, moving her hand towards the butterfly. It leapt into the air, then fell with a thud on the grass. It was still too cold to fly. Meghan tried again, but more gently. She laid her fingertip in its path.
The butterfly stayed still, then wove one leg across Meghan’s finger. Another, and another still, until all were threaded over her skin. Meghan slowly, carefully lifted her hand. The butterfly stayed put.
They walked together, meandering up the hill in the shade. Meghan waited for the butterfly to take flight. It didn’t. It soared via Meghan’s hand, its orange wings a bright contrast to the cold of the ocean and the dark of the mountain.
Soon, they approached the garden, where flowers were waking in time with the sun creeping over the dirt. While Meghan enjoyed her companion’s company, she knew a flower was a better home for a butterfly than her hand. “Here you go,” she said, stooping towards a marigold.
The butterfly paused. Meghan moved her hand closer to the petals.
One leg upon the petal. Then another.
The butterfly stood on the marigold. Slowly, its wings unfolded. The sun landed on its citrus wings, and the dots upon its night-sky border sparkled like stars.
Meghan smiled. “You’re welcome.”