Ada's Butterflies

They were a kindergarten graduation gift from her Daddy: five baby caterpillars in a little box. They were named, fed, watched and doted upon. They grew bigger and bigger until, well, you know the story. And then, after much impatience, there was a butterfly. And then there were four more. It was exciting: the life cycle in our own family room. Ada held them, fed them sugar water on mums, and when she felt nice, she even shared them. But then it was time to let them go, they were butterflies after all, but all the convincing and explaining in the world could not persuade her that that was a good idea. She loved them with a real, six-year-old love that wanted them close, wanted them to be hers forever. It made no sense to her to say good-bye, not until four of them died. And then she carried the cage outside, tears and disappointment wet on her face, and watched as Henry, the lone survivor, flew from our hanging basket to our maple tree. She cried in to Eleanor's shoulder and then called Gramma, who's always good for stuff like that, and then decided she wants more. She wants to do it all over again.