Butterfly's Last Flight

            On my way home, after a brisk walk up Arroyo Road, I spotted a butterfly fluttering in the middle of the street.  It was flapping its soft wings furiously against the pavement but seemed unable to fly.  Clearly not a safe position for a delicate little creature to be in!  I bent down on one knee and extended my hand, offering myself as a refuge in the only way I knew how.  To my surprise, the butterfly crawled toward me eagerly and climbed right up and over my fingers to rest, for a timeless moment, in the cup of my palm.  No cars were coming so I just stayed there, kneeling in the middle of the street with this butterfly in my hand.  As she gently lifted and lowered her wings, as if catching her breath, I noticed her distinct coloring: shiny midnight black with wisps of blue iridescence, and two bright orange dots on the undersides of her wings.

            Then suddenly she began fluttering fast again, so fast I thought she might damage her fragile self.  But then, as if she knew exactly where she was going, she began marching herself up my arm in a flurry.  She took a swirling path, like the path the wind would take if I were caught in a tornado.  First, she crawled over the translucent underside of my wrist and over my shirt cuff, then inward toward my torso and around my forearm to the dry point of my elbow, then across the outside of my bicep and onto my shoulder where she perched for a moment to gather herself.  But she didn’t stop there as I thought she might.  She continued marching toward my head, crossing right over my shirt collar and stepping onto the back of my neck.  The tickling sensation of her feathery legs crawling up the back of my neck made me twitch and giggle, and I had to consciously prevent my hand from swatting reflexively.  Once across the barren desert of my skin, she entered the tangled jungle of my hair.  I thought she might get lost or frightened in there, or maybe stumble over a loose strand and lose her footing.  But no, she kept marching confidently to the highest point on my body - the crown of my head - with exquisitely clear determination.  It seemed she’d been planning and waiting her whole life to climb this mountain of me.  I got the sense that this was the last great thing she’d accomplish in her life, and she’d decided to face it with a fiery will and clarity of vision that cut straight through any of my lurking confusion or trepidation.  Usually I think of butterflies as somewhat lazy, dawdling little insects.  They fumble from flower to flower, content to indulge themselves on nectar before passing tipsily on to their next sweet reward.  But this butterfly was not wasting any of her precious time.  Her minutes were numbered and she knew exactly how she intended to spend the last moments in her winged form.

            When she reached my crown I stood paralyzed like a wonder-struck child.  What could possibly happen now?  I couldn’t see her anymore, and with my thick hair as a barrier, I could no longer feel her up there–where reason told me she must be.  For a second I questioned whether or not she might have evaporated entirely along with all my sensations of her.  I wanted so badly to check, so in my mind’s eye I projected my sight outward, unsticking my vision from its usual vantage point (inside my head) and allowing it to permeate the molecules of the surrounding air.  In my imagination I allowed my gaze to hover around my body in an invisible cloud, and from this perspective I could observe myself from all angles, as if my body were a statue.

            I saw myself frozen in time: anticipating the moments that would inevitably come next, though unsure if I would ever comprehend them; not wanting to make the slightest rustle that might dispel the impending magic.  I saw my pale face carved in stone, cheeks smooth as milky marble, eyes wide and dripping with lacquer, eyebrows chiseled into upturned crescents of surprise.  From my expression I could see that I almost disbelieved the moment, even as it unfolded before me.  And as my gaze continued to float upward, I finally beheld the crowned jewel: the dusty black, paper-thin miracle, resting now after her brave journey with her wings lifting and falling on the breath of her sighs.  Sighs of satisfaction?  Of relief?  Of nostalgia for a life well-lived?  Sighs to celebrate an ending or in anticipation of a new beginning?  Perhaps all, some, or none of these.  From the perspective of the universe, I watched myself and my new friend for a few petrified minutes, forgetting the existence of any time and place that was not simply this.

            And then, all of a sudden, she jumped!  Pushing off the terra firma of my head, she alighting on the breeze and soared for the last few glorious seconds of her life, feeling the air embracing her soft body on all sides, the comforting fullness of the wind in her winged sails, before losing her balance, floating limply down, and finally sinking like a pebble to the ground.  Released from my paralysis, I ran over to where she landed, in the dirt on the side of the road, and stared down at what was left of her.  She was still alive, but barely, her wings gently lifting and falling as before but much softer and slower now, resembling the feathery caresses of a mother’s fingertips as she lulls her baby to sleep.  I gazed down at my little friend as her life seeped away, my heart aching with the longing to postpone or reverse her departure from this world, yet knowing any attempt to revive her would be an act of hubris.

            Just then, a car the color of the sky drove up and parked across the street.  An old woman got out and immediately made her way over to us, as if she had stopped the car just to see what was going on.  “What is it?” She inquired as she approached, squinting at the spot on the ground where my eyes were still focused.  “A butterfly.”  I answered, and told her briefly what had happened.  She hobbled closer and bent down to have a good look.  The butterfly’s wings were mostly still now, their edges frayed slightly from the fall, and the bright orange dots of her false eyes staring back at us from across the void of countless veiled dimensions.  After a reverent moment, the old lady straightened up smiling, and with a voice as clear and fresh as an alpine stream, she spoke to the little creature: “Thank you for being” was all she said before walking away.

            I lingered a little longer at the scene, not wanting to leave, but eventually said goodbye to the butterfly and turned for home.  As I walked, I repeated those words to myself, marveling at their simple perfection.  How can a four-letter phrase honor both life and death so joyfully and completely without needing to discriminate between the two?  And how is it that I’m so blessed to have two angels descend into my life on the same day, both nearer to death than me, reminding me how alive I am?  Before walking through my front door, I turned around for one last look at the outside world.  Fluffy clouds swept across the afternoon sky and the leaves of the bay trees shimmied in celebration.  Overtaken by an upswelling of bliss I threw my arms open as if to embrace the entire universe.  “Thank you for being!” I shouted with a smile as full and wide as a winged sail.