by Simon Cross
As a child I caught a butterfly. In the moment of its capture, the tiny creature’s fluttery kisses tickled my fingers. I knew for certain it was there.
But then the butterfly grew still, content to sit in the darkness of its small prison. I grew concerned, was it dead? Had it somehow escaped?
I peeked in, and through the dappled daylight caught a muted glimpse of wing. Folded and shadowed, it looked a different beast, but I knew it was the same thing.
Time went on and I grew bolder, opening my hands wider to get a better view.
And then it happened: I opened them to look in, and the butterfly flew off.
And as I looked at the butterfly skipping through the air, I knew that it was right. It belonged in the wind, not in the stuffy silence of my closed hands.
So I followed the butterfly’s meandering maze, and it led off me in a dazzling dance.
© Simon Cross 2018