sweet butterflies

           I never did forget the butterflies. We'd catch them in the garden, behind my yellow house. They were truly beautiful, flapping effortlessly, fluttering in unison. Blues, greens, even pinks—my eyes were blinded by the array of bright colors from the butterflies. We didn't have nets to catch them with, so we caught them with empty jam jars Mama lent me. We'd be lucky if we caught just one—that one special butterfly that never got away.

           They'd fly, far, far away from us—and I'd think to myself, maybe the butterflies don't like us. Then, I knew why the butterflies were so willing, so desperate to fly away. They're free.

           In my stomach, the flapping of a butterfly still lingers—a butterfly I caught from you, and never seemed to disappear over the years.

           I remember the flutter of its butterfly wings; I remember the cry of the butterfly that was never set free.