My grandparents kept few books in their house—a Bible, a monthly assortment of recordings for the blind, and a few field guides. As a child, I was particularly drawn to the guide on butterflies—wore out its pages, especially the one featuring a fairy creature of inky blues and black. I so wished to see one off the page. I’ve been on the lookout for one ever since.
On a walk this week near our Bluegrass home, my husband stopped. A lone blue butterfly lit before him on the sidewalk. I could hardly believe our good fortune. Enchanted, I held my breath while taking in the moment. And a moment was all the butterfly gave us before flying away as magically as it had appeared.
I was okay with that. The diminutive creature was every bit as exquisite as I’d imagined it to be all these years. Though our meeting was brief, it was well worth the wait.
“Butterflies are self-propelled flowers.”
—R. H. Heinlein
—R. H. Heinlein
[Note: There are many varieties of blue butterflies. The one painted here by Martin Johnson Heade is not the type we saw on our walk.]
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