The Butterfly’s Plight (Continued)
“Darling, the butterfly will have wings. It has to survive independently.”
As I pushed the sliding glass door aside one evening, my anxiety increased. The chrysalis on the branch was reduced to a clear, shriveled husk. My eyes widened at the evidence of the creature's emergence from its cocoon. I wanted to pause and mute my heart, which thrashed against my ribs. I wanted to stop my breathing, harsh and ragged with anticipating this moment and the smoggy, humid air. I inhaled slowly; the magic of the creature's awakening from its lengthy sleep lingering on my breath. I wanted to do anything, everything to ensure that I would not startle the life before me.
What caught my attention was its body: Ribbons of rich, charcoal black and splashes of white wove around its vivid orange wings.
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