Butterfly

First published September 16, 2005

Last Friday I held a monarch butterfly on my finger and carried him out into the blinding afternoon sun.

I had first known him as a scrawny little caterpillar, crawling around on green leaves like an eating machine, converting what seemed like acres of milkweed into a bigger, juicier caterpillar. Then I watched him climb up and hang in the air for a whole day, looking as nervous as a caterpillar can look, working up the courage to do what he had to do.

I watched that caterpillar turn himself inside out – I don’t know any other way to describe it – and transform himself into that distinctive bright green monarch chrysalis, with the row of tiny gold nuggets across the side. And earlier last Friday I watched him fight his way out of his chrysalis, turned whisper-thin and transparent after hanging motionless for two weeks, then I watched him unfurl his monarch’s gold and black wings.

I just got off the phone with my son. He was telling me that he was getting ready for his first real “I’ve-gotta-buy-a-suit-for-it” job interview. He wanted to know if he needed to wear a belt along with the suspenders that came with that new suit. I told him not unless it was a gun belt.

As I hung up, I couldn’t help thinking about the first time I held my son, minutes old and not much bigger than my two hands. I looked at his wizened little newborn-reptile face, and he looked at me with an expression that was every bit as amazed as I felt. I think we were sizing each other up.

We both decided on the spot to go ahead and give it a shot.

I couldn’t help thinking about watching that scrawny little infant crawling around the house like an eating machine, converting what seemed like acres of cheerios and strained peas into a bigger, juicier kid.

I couldn’t help thinking about standing him up on his Big Bike for the first time, or about taking him to get braces on his teeth. Or about buying us both rollerblades so I could teach him how to skate, then accidentally tripping him with my hockey stick so those brand new braces completely mangled the inside of his lips. Or about the day he informed me that I could no longer hug him in front of all the other kids when I dropped him off at school.

I couldn’t help thinking about when he hit sixteen, and I watched him turn himself inside out – I don’t know any other way to describe it – to transform himself into that distinctive moody, non-communicative teen-ager.

For the next few years I didn’t really see too much of him. He always seemed to be “hanging out” with buddies, and didn’t really have much to say.

And now he’s bought himself a suit for a job interview. Even though he told me that it was light gray – with suspenders – I can’t help picturing the jacket as somehow being monarch gold and black.

Last Friday when I held that butterfly up to the sun, I had to shake my finger a little bit to get him to let go. But when he finally did, he flexed those beautiful wings and soared away into the sky.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball