Broken Flower (Early Spring 1)

"When we were in Florida last year. I got three sulphurs and this great purple hairstreak."

"Fantastic," Ian said.

I thought they were pretty, but I felt sorry for them trapped in little bags. Did they die in the bags or before?

"I'm getting a danaid from Hong Kong. Should be here in a few weeks," she told Ian.

"Why are you collecting them?" I asked, and she looked up at me as if I was the dumbest person on earth.

"They're beautiful to look at, aren't they?"

"Yes."

She looked at Ian. "Do you know that Japanese haiku about the butterfly?"

"Which one? There are a number of them," he said.

"What's a haiku?" I asked.

"A poem, a three-line poem," Flora said. "I'm in advanced English class," she bragged.

"You don't have to be in advanced English to know that," Ian said.

"The poem I'm thinking of goes, 'A butterfly died on the water. He thought he died on the moon."'

"How could he die on the moon if he died on the water?" I asked.

"The moon's reflection on the water," Ian said.

"Do butterflies think?" I asked, looking at them in the plastic bags.

"Not like us, but butterflies are a wonder in nature, Jordan. They start as caterpillars, you know."

I looked at Ian. I had forgotten that and I remembered now how interested he was in caterpillars and what he had taught me about them.

"They live to consume, eat. They're always hungry. They die, in a way. They form a chrysalis, pupa. It looks like a tiny leather pouch under a leaf. Inside it, the caterpillar is changing, metamorphosing into a butterfly. They actually go through four stages of life, an egg, a caterpillar, pupa, and then finally, the beautiful butterfly."

"Egg?" I said.

"Yes. We begin as egg, too."

"I know,"

"Good. Then we're just like caterpillars, cute or ugly but just eating and sleeping until we hit puberty," she said, and my eyes widened. "Through puberty we mature. A little girl becomes a woman. Imagine when the butterfly comes to life and looks at itself. Its own body is probably the most fascinating thing in the world, just as ours becomes to us."

"We don't know that they look at themselves," Ian said. "Aside from Homo sapiens, I know that only capuchin monkeys have a self-image."

"Imagine that they do," Flora said, impatient with him, "It's how a teacher might explain it to her."

"Is that what you want to be, a teacher?" Ian asked her.

Flora shrugged. 'I don't know what I'll be. I'm still metamorphosing," she said. Then she looked at me again. "You're coming out of the pupa, Jordan. Early, but nevertheless, you're coming out. They might be able to stop you for a while with the medicine, but you're getting a taste of what it will be nevertheless. I hope it's easier for you than it was for me. I might be able to help a little,"

She paused and went to another drawer, took out some of her clothes, and then brought out a cloth bag tightly tied with a cord.

"What's that?" Ian asked nervously,

"Something she can have if you want her to," she said, and slowly opened the bag.