It's a Monarch

The little girl squealed “eww!” at its stiff, flowery corpse. Its fragile, golden body shaped in v remained still, unmoved by the motion of impatient trail runners waiting for the race to begin. I’m not around children too often but wondered what it was about the butterfly that made the little girl distraught. She was the one who saw it first, which bestowed upon her the title of protector or keeper or in this case, the sharer of yucky marvels. In response to her disgust to what I imagine is all-things-creepy-crawly or all-things-dead, I strove to create calmness and understanding in our tiny, intimate two-person and one-dead-bug universe. To do so, I calmly said, It's a Monarch.

I crouched down to examine the dead insect and its possible cause of death. Its wings were intact, gorgeous enough to wear and this creature wore them well. It was a tiny, ambitious body, somehow tragically ended during its flutter-by attempt to migrate southwest. I briefly imagined the Monarch flicker-fumbling along thermals in Kansas, above big-rigs on the long stretches of highway in Texas, back into the lush Mexican elm forest where it unites in the most photogenic hibernation known to man. The unquestionable, natural determination of an animal’s instincts never cease to astound. To see its determination—that body once coiled in the incredible fabrics of a cocoon—ceased and wilting in my hand was something worth rising to the sky, or at least taking home. Holding the dead thing in my hand, I included the recoiling little girl, recruiting her to help me find a safe place to keep the Monarch until I finished the race. She readily agreed to take responsibility for hiding it, protecting our damaged little secret. She guided me to a freshly-fallen tree, its leaves still thick with green. I placed it beneath some leaves, which wasn’t good enough to the little girl’s standards of hiding, so she put more leaves on top. We walked away, calm.

After the race, I was sprawled in the grass, relaxing. congratulating other trail runners. I remembered the Monarch and asked the little girl to go retrieve it for me. She looked pained by the thought of the task but I calmly assured her that she could do it. I encouraged her to gently place it on a leaf and carry it to me.

I watched her walk over to the tree, determined to fulfill her mission. She pushed branches aside, paused. I watched her lower onto her haunches, her head of red hair cocked to the side in concentration. She looked like she was being gentle. She then stood up, a leaf in the cup of her hands and marched back to me, the Monarch risen in ceremony.