Cycle

Dear Diary,1

We got the chyrsalises from the store. They came in one of those green butterfly kits, a large cylinder with white netting to look through. Just because the bars are hard to see doesn't change the fact that it's still a prison. I wasn't enthusiastic. I remember from preschool how we got silkworms from the teachers. The silkworms traveled up and down our hands, powdery gray trains on a pointless mission. They eventually spun their nests and were silent and still. But the ants came; they broke through the cocoons and inside, and all that was left were the silky fragments and corpses.2

But after a time I woke up and the chrysalises were opened. Dusty-looking butterflies were already out; they uncurled tongues that were perfect for carrying words in and imbibed the nectar that only made me sneeze. And I reached inside and one of them fluttered to my finger in short hops like an airplane off course.3

It only had one wing. The other was a ragged stub that would never grow and never be used.4

I didn't give it a name because I pretended I hated it. But I laughed when it reached out its storytelling tongue and licked my palm.5

And then we let it go.6

The next day we found its carcass clinging to the window screen, like so many crashed paper airplanes.