My mother sent me a video without a word.

It was an old VCR tape of me in my small stature.

I was asked what future profession I preferred.

I smiled saying, “I wanna be a butterfly catcher.”

Memories of an old friend flickered into my brain.

Buttercup the butterfly, yellow like a dress.

Our game was chase, she wouldn’t complain.

She would come to play every single recesss.

But, one day, I came out of class to a sight.

A crowd by a butterfly that’s been stomped on.

Kids my age cried on their woe and plight.

Unexpectedly, suddenly, she was just… gone.

That was the first time I experienced a loss.

I didn’t understand it at first. I was in a stun.

We made a grave for her out of moss.

Does it always hurt this much to lose someone?

“I wanna be a butterfly catcher,” Little me said.

“Why?” My pre-school teacher asked.

I explained the butterfly fantasies in my head.

Anything to make simple days like this last.

Chase good things. I forgot how to do that.

I still sometimes cry in tissues and cloths.

And I still feel like I’m stuck in the past.

I am not a butterfly, I am a moth.