JPG

we went hiking today, and along the trail infront of us i saw a mid-air commotion. what i think is a bird and a very big butterfly. then the butterfly dropped from the air and fell on the trail just ahead of us.

it was fluttering around, not able to catch air. my three year old son and i stopped to kneel beside it, wondering how we could help. we offered the butterfly a stick on which to climb (which it did) and we placed it in the sunlight. it fluttered its wings frantically and then settled down.

"maybe that will help it feel better. do you feel better butterfly?" he asks it. it just flutters its wings slowly now, more like a heart beating. rhythmical. it's damaged. not just the wing but the body. it's dying and we are watching and unable to really do anything but be present.

what a lesson. for both of us.

"how is it broken momma?" we sit beside the butterfly and talk. he scoops dirt and acorns and rocks into little construction sites and i think about how i've never been witness to a butterfly death.

i think in a morbid way that there is beauty in this. and i wonder if river will remember this, with his use of the word 'death' used out of context in a cartoonish way. i wonder if he will remember this, the quiet, and the slowing down and the respect when we watched this butterfly die simply because it fell at our feet at just the right time.