 NURSERY RHYMES Mother and I are walking on the cement path behind the kitchen doorway. She has her camera out, stalking a photo opportunity. And there, on a rose bush, sitting motionless in the morning light is a large monarch butterfly. I have never seen a live thing so intricately beautiful and so quiet. The butterfly moves its wings once, changing the colors delicately. I am entranced. |
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Mother says, "Pick it up and I'll take a photo of you holding it." I am indignant. "Verboten," I say. "If you touch a butterfly the dust gets rubbed off its wings and it won't be able to fly. Koch says." "Well, Koch is wrong. Pick it up. You won't hurt it, I promise." "But Koch SAYS!" "Koch is not your mother. I am your mother. Now pick up the butterfly and I promise you with all my heart that picking up a butterfly will not hurt it. It will fly away, I promise." I pick up the butterfly, holding it gingerly at the tip of one wing, hoping not to rub away the magic dust. Mother snaps the picture. Relieved, I release the butterfly. It falls heavily to the ground, smashing my innocence. The photograph survives. | |
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