A dreary day can come at any point in time, hovering, even when the sky is yellow and blue. Like in this moment as I idle in the car at red light, eyes catching a vibrant, orange butterfly as it dashes through Winter Haven, crashing onto cement. I call this poor thing Joy. Winded from its fall, Joy struggles, lifting inches before a car comes barreling over. One of Joy’s wings now pinned to the ground. My heart cries out, because this beautiful creature has no chance. More cars trample through, the weight of each ton of manmade metal showing no mercy. I’m nearly in tears now. Joy’s one remaining wing flaps, but I can’t tell if it’s from the wind blowing and the cars, or from the efforts of trying to exist. In my mind, I think Joy is still fighting for its life. In reality, I know Joy is down and Joy is not coming back up. Life is fragile like that. We all know this. We all say it. I empathize with Joy all too well, feeling the weight of those cars. I have fallen, too, no longer hanging on by a thread, one wing pinned, the remaining wing fluttering in dim light. The light turns green and I drive, passing the blood orange. I am grasping on to Joy.
















