Last night, while checking on the vegetables on the porch, I noticed a swallowtail butterfly bumping against the window, as though trying to peer inside.
So butterflies do the same thing moths do, I thought, rather impressed.
“Want to come in? Hmm?” I held out my hand, and it climbed right on.
For a moment, a thought crossed my mind: How much longer does this little fellow have?
“Well then, coming in?” I opened the door. It flew in, fluttering around the long fluorescent-light cover.
I went downstairs to get my camera. When I came back, it was gone.
And then, to my surprise, I heard myself calling, “Butterfly? Butterfly?” And in such a sad voice, too. I was worried. What if it died because I had let it inside?
There I was, actually searching for it, calling, “Butterfly? Butterfly?” Not singing the song. Really calling for it.
Then I found it—on the ceiling.
“How do you manage to hang there upside down like that?” It opened and closed its wings a few times, then folded them and became perfectly still.
“Spending the night here, are you?” I left the light on and went downstairs.
Tomorrow, I must remember to let it out.
Could this be the same swallowtail that perched on the cucumber plant on my birthday?
I stuck a Post-it on my phone with one word written on it: BUTTERFLY.
*******
The next morning I went upstairs and there it was, fluttering its wings by the door. It remembered the way it had got in.
“Want to get out, don’t you?” I opened the door and out it flew. I got out, stood on the porch and saw it vanish behind the house.
