Tuesday, November 11, 2008
It is afternoon now. I have let the butterfly rest and drop its orange liquid waste on my kitchen table for four hours. I want it to be outside when it takes its first flight, which I sense is coming very soon. I wish no indignity for this one, such as the one who hatched before had suffered. That one dropped out of its chrysalis and stretched its wings quietly in the kitchen, I working in another room, unaware...and when I came in for lunch it set sail and clambered against a window, struggling toward freedom. I had to carry it, flailing and doubtless shouting in a voice too high to hear, to the clear September air outside.
For this one, this special butterfly at whose side I've held such a long vigil, I creep softly, holding the creature aloft on its twig, hoping that it won't lift off before we get outside.
It snaps its new wings open and shut, a butterfly's signal of arrival and power, and clambers higher on its twig.
Wait... don't go yet.
I'm not ready for you to leave.
Swinging around wildly, I click and click, capturing a few frames, amazingly enough. Have you ever tried to photograph a flying butterfly
When you are crying
When your breath is taken from your lungs
When you are engulfed in grace?