A Butterfly’s Resting Place

A butterfly chose to die on my desk, the one I have outside on the deck. When she came for a visit, I noted the way her wings settled slowly on her unhurried perch. I respected her lack of fear, and wanted to give her the space she needed.

She stood quite still, wings vertical like a single flower petal. Their orange, blacks, and whites were not a monarch, but beyond that I don’t know. The white patches were at the edge of the wings, as if they may be damaged. After a few hours, I took a closer look at my visitor, to make sure her wings weren’t hurt. They were fine, so I went back to work.

At a certain point I needed to use my desk, but I didn’t want to be rude to my visitor. I tried a gentle nudge. The tiny leg kicked about. Ok, not that. I wondered what else I could do, and found a piece of paper I could put before the butterfly.

I slid it down and she stumbled up onto it. Her feet seemed to get stuck each time they were on any surface. Is that normal? I really don’t know much about butterflies.

Once she was on the paper, she slowly unfurled her proboscis, searching in vain for nectar. Surely nectar wasn’t hard to make for an industrial human like me. Perhaps my friend was just hungry.

I went inside and made a batch: 4 parts water, 1 part sugar, a pinch of salt, and a pinch of baking soda. I let it cool in the fridge for half an hour, then soaked a paper towel and presented it to my winged guest. To my delight, she unfurled her tiny straw and drank to her content. I took a video. It made me smile.

She drank her fill, then struggled to turn around to face out into the greenery of nature. I live in the country, so there aren’t any houses to see. There’s just some greenhouses, the chickens, the yard, and the forest beyond. She stayed like that until I went inside.

At that point, I was pretty sure she wasn’t in recovery. It was an early night, but still warm. There’s something nice about helping something, even if it doesn’t really make a difference.

I came outside this morning to find her body laying on the paper, no longer held up on weak legs. Her wings haven’t faded even though they’ve shriveled. I wonder how many butterflies die of old age.