flutter-by

I've had a butterfly living in my car for a week. I have no idea how he stayed alive so long, but day after day, I'd see him flutter past my peripheral in the rear view mirror. Last night I tried to shoo him out of the car while it was parked in the driveway, but he just fluttered about frantically before landing and relanding in his favourite spot -- the back dash. I kept trying to see some sort of metaphor in his existence in my life. Or figure out if he was supposed to be some sort of sign. I actually said out loud to him one day, "what do you mean?"

Today I saw him resting comfortably in the corner of the back dash, so I thought I'd try once again to free him. He didn't move; he just flopped over lifelessly when I touched him. He didn't look so good, but I knew the day would come. There's nothing for him to eat in my car! There are no flowers or pollen of any kind! He needs the great outdoors!

I drove out to the barn later on, the windows open and the music loud. I wasn't thinking about my butterfly as I rumbled down the gravel road and onto the long, winding driveway of the farm. Four of my friends were standing around outside the barn as I drove up. I felt happy, seeing the horses looking at me all perky-eared at the fence, waving back at my lovely friends, having a great song on the radio finish up just in time.

When I got out of the car and turned to look towards the hilly pastures, the sun hanging lower in the sky this time of year, my butterfly, a delicate orange-and-black self-propelled flower, fluttered around me, past my face and disappeared into the late summer's air.

Maybe he was just holding out for somewhere he knew he really belonged.

Me too.