I am no longer a butterfly
Things used to be different when I was a younger butterfly. One thing that didn't change is the garden I'm from. There are many other butterflies that live in the garden with me. We have a caretaker that ensures we're all properly fed. He also likes to leave different types of fruit near the garden in hopes of attracting more butterflies.
Did you know? We tend to prefer rotting fruit over ripe ones because of the texture and its contents that gets easier for us to absorb. Today I saw a banana, yesterday I saw an orange. Last week I saw a peach, baking in the sun.
There's a problem with the garden. Some of the flowers are in an enclosed area. If not for a single hung window we wouldn't be able to fly inside. Our caretaker noticed this, and he leaves a tiny little opening for us to get inside in the night. Because of the small size of the opening, sometimes, when he's away from the garden, the window will close from the most fragile weakest gusts of wind you can imagine. The consequences of this rare sight lead to an even more infrequent sight.
All of the butterflies close to the window line up in a rainbow of colors from their colored wings and pay close attention to the last butterfly in line, as it's responsible for the cue. The moment it starts flying, all of the other butterflies one by one, starting by the closest to the rightmost butterfly , slowly align themselves to the rightmost butterfly. Barely surpassing the height of the edge of the window, the rhythmic delicate flap of their wings is just enough force to create an opposing force to the closed window.
It doesn't always work. If the window is fully closed, chances are our technique just won't work. But if the wind isn't as aggressive that day, it is a beautiful sight.
I'm not very good at this technique. The times I've tried it my angle was wrong, or I would fly too high, or maybe my timing would be off. I just wasn't good at it, but all of the other butterflies were.
The garden also had a little pond nearby with a cluster of lily pads and I loved to ride them to the other side of the pond. The ripples it would make before it adjusts to the weight of my body would obstruct my reflection in the water, but just for a moment.
One day, at night, there weren't many butterflies around. It was around the time that I would usually get inside the enclosed area. The window was closed. I was the only one there. As I stare into myself through the reflection of the window, I try to remember how the other butterflies use their wings to open it, and then I have an idea. I move to the left side of the window and I try to imagine all the other butterflies that would be in position aside me. I slowly countdown to three in my head.
Maybe my angle was off. I think I got up too early. I align myself to the window once more and I make sure my legs are correctly aligned to the other imaginary butterflies. I calmly repeat the countdown.
As I slowly get down to land, I am met with my reflection like before. This time I stare for longer than before, and I listen to the sound of the birds. The stream from the pond, the neighbor's dog, the wind that closed the window.
There has to be another way.
I look down to where I was standing, and I notice a strange indent in the edge of the window. I instinctively try to flap my wings against it and nothing happens. But then, I have another idea. There's a weird thing inside the indent that I can't reach. I grab a light piece of orange skin that was left in the ground with a rotting orange and I carefully try to place it inside the indent. At first, nothing happens, but after I try to shake it lightly around the indent an unforeseen sight lies ahead of me.
I hear a click, the orange skin falls to the wet grass, I move away out of fear. I keep staring at the window until I build up the courage to grab the orange skin and repeat the process, although something was off. The window was shaky, it felt brittle and sensitive, any light move from the orange would make a startling sound. Instinctively, I flap my wings against the indent once again, but this time I do it whilst holding the orange... and somehow, out of any logic I could reasonably come up with, there it was. The window was opened, and I was the one who did it.
The next day comes, and there's something I failed to mention. There's something I liked to do with the fallen leaves. They come in a variety of colors so I challenge myself to try to find leaves that have exactly the same tone and color. When I find enough of them, I mount them up in a pile and I draw a small circle in the ground with them, before I move on to the aforementioned lily pad ride.
The sun goes down and tonight there are many butterflies around. It is almost time for the butterfly ritual so I grab another orange piece and I make sure to get to the edge of the window before anyone else. I see them getting closer and all of them stare at me with confusion. I turn around, I place the orange inside the indent, I carefully shake it inside, and fly up.
The window is open. I look back and they're still staring at me. I fly down whilst looking at them and we're still exchanging sight. I listen to my surroundings. The sound of the birds, the stream from the pond, the neighbor's dog, the wind that closed the window.
One of them slowly flies down to the inside of the room and the others follow along in an organized manner. I didn't even want to see the flowers that day. I was happy with my accomplishment.
The next day comes and I wait on the edge of the window again. Just like the last day I have an audience flying in front of me waiting for me to do "something". I open the window, we stare at each other, they fly in.
The next day I do the same thing. And its events are too similar to the last day for me to comment on any differences.
The next day some butterflies don't stare at me anymore. They go inside the room the moment I open the window.
There I was looking at the horizon, holding the piece of orange and waiting for someone to see me.
There were butterflies around.
But they were close to the fruits on the ground, baking from the moonlight.
I look back to the window, and I do my trick.
The window is open. I look back to the horizon.
I keep looking. I'm looking at the horizon.
The next day comes around and there's an unusual sight. Many butterflies are lined up in a row close to a string basket that I've never seen before. They wait for a butterfly in the rightmost space to fly so the others in line, one by one, closest to the rightmost butterfly to the farthest, fly up in such a distance as to gently open the basket lid with their wings.
It was a beautiful sight.
As to not break my routine I start grabbing leaves of the same color and I start drawing my circle. By the end of my process, I did something very strange. I took a differently colored leaf to the rest and I placed it right on top of my yellow circle.
I fly to my dear pond and I patiently wait for the ripples of the lily pad to stop distorting my reflection. The lily pad stops at a consistent angle to the surface of the water. The ripples are gone. There I was.
I am no longer a butterfly.
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