19

In my writing class, we were to construct a tale revolving around one of our childhood memories. Rather than write it as we remembered it, we were supposed to write it as if we were the ones being remembered. That is, to write a vicarious recollection, from the point of view of some pervasive piece of such a reminiscence. And, perhaps the most challenging aspect of the assignment, we weren’t to write it down at all, but to share it upon being called.

“Perhaps human children are oft oblivious to their surroundings when chasing me,” I began, the third to be selected for sharing, “but of the ones I’ve encountered thus far, this was the most interesting paradigm. Most children will follow me through a field, around the swings and down a slide, from their porch and through a garden; others admire me during a rainstorm that renders me without capability of flight, and others still from places they expect me to not notice them, such as above me, in trees, or as they hide in the brush. This child, however, this wild and squealing babe with its oddly strong, grasping fingers and bright, buoyant smile, with its mirthful eyes and toddling ways of walking upon its newly sturdy legs, followed me through a forest, though I flit about carelessly, seeking not to taunt it to its end, but doing so nonetheless.

“Perhaps human children tend to follow me because of the marvellous blue sheen emanating from my wings, or the way that I seem to barely hold myself aloft before falling and having to press against the air once more, and again, a pattern of persistent falling and rising. Perhaps in this manner I remind them of themselves, falling perpetually only to stand and push on again, a giggle upon their face. I posit that this strange child, one whose gaze was as transfixed as my memory is ephemeral, was enthralled by my existence, rather than what I impressed upon his physical self, that his mind was absolved of all things but my being. I think he truly appreciated me, this human child.

“Perhaps that is why I shouted so vehemently at the cruel fate of this boy when he fell that horribly long distance, for both him and me; that the world would send him out of it so soon reminded me of my own fate, and I — sympathising with his struggle — screamed, a silent voice amongst the whispers of all the winds, one whose cry may never be heard. I hovered a moment, awaiting the carnage to strike its message upon my heart, that all who dared attempt defy fate and death were rendered prisoners as brutally as possible, that one could never escape one’s destiny.

“But when his mother caught him in her arms, those limbs exuding such strength and compassion for the predicament of her child, when she held him close and murmured sweet things to soothe her babe, I felt unleashed within me the hope of a thousand men reprieved of besiegement, the exuberant joy of a caterpillar finding itself released to the wild in its new form. Perhaps my existence as a butterfly ended with the snap of a robin’s beak, but I am immortal, for in the mind of that boy the very essence of my being is captured, and thus I survive.

“Perhaps this is why human children exist. Not to fall nor hurt themselves, but to observe the butterflies and thus render them immortal.”