Change

What she loves about butterflies is how they tell her she’s perfect. How they tell her that nothing is wrong. That all is okay.

What she loves about butterflies is how they metamorphize. How they once were a caterpillar, a creature she likes a lot less, and then that caterpillar turns to goo in a chrysalis and somehow things rearrange into brightly colored tissue paper wings and long antennae. How does the gooey green body of caterpillar turn into an azure blue, the color of the Nicaraguan sea? How does a worm spread wings with false eyes?

Down by the creek she watches the little white cabbage moths tumble over each other in the air. Just above the tamarisk, they somersault. It seems she need only raise her eyes and they always are, telling her all is well.

In fact, they are always visiting her. She doesn’t have to look far and she’ll spot one. They say, there are no problems. Not even death.

They do not visit her directly. One has not landed on her shirt, pumping its wings. She’s never examined one perched on pointer finger.

But they surround her while she sits on a rock overlooking the pond. If she looks closely, she sees them everywhere.