To: The Holes in Her Butterfly Wings

I hated butterflies for most of my life. 

My dad used to take my sister and I to the zoo. He wanted us to learn the names of all of the types of animals and he always made it a learning experience. And, for most of the journey through the zoo, we kept to those goals. We learned about the bald eagle at the entrance to the zoo and then the monkeys—gross, by the way, no one can tell me otherwise. I didn’t even mind the owl that much, even if it did keep its eyes glued to me every single time I walked past it.

But when we passed that butterfly tent and my dad wanted me to let an insect sit on my nose so he could take a picture, that was where I drew the line. No amount of bribery could get me to walk inside the tent, though that did not stop my dad from trying. He would point out the other little girls who were laughing and shouting about how the butterfly tickled their noses, but to no avail. My sister even ran right into the tent, despite my father’s request for the three of us to stay together. My sister was smart. She knew if she didn’t go in herself, we would have simply left. There was no way I was ever going into that tent.

“They’re cool in theory, I guess,” I would say to my sister on the drive home. “I just don’t like it when they’re near me. Have you seen them up close? They’re gross.”

“You think too much for your age, Erica” my dad would reply from the driver’s seat, an annoyed grimace teasing to appear on his face. And maybe I did think too much. Maybe I still do. Either way, I hated those damn butterflies.

But then she started sending me butterflies.

It didn’t start as much. It came to me in a song, something about a butterfly’s wings. But every song about falling in love talks about butterflies in your stomach, so I didn’t think much of it. Until recently I thought everyone who talked about butterflies as a symptom of being in love was lying. That is, until she started sending me butterflies.

Despite the butterflies, I enjoyed the song. Naturally, I added it to many of my playlists. For three days straight, whenever I shuffled a playlist, it was the first song to come up.

The second butterfly was a little more obvious. I was walking around a used book store like I do most Thursdays. The book I picked up didn’t have any true meaning to me. I wouldn’t find out until later that it was, in fact, her favorite book. But when I opened it, a bookmark fell out. Written on the top end of the bookmark was the word “Dream.” And on the bottom of the bookmark was a drawing of, you guessed it, a butterfly.

I took the book home with me and placed the bookmark on my bedside table. I tried not to think too much about it, but I had to admit I didn’t hate the butterfly on that bookmark. It was a feeling I can’t really explain—as though it was scented with some type of love potion that I couldn’t deny. I didn’t know why I didn’t mind the butterfly being next to me at night.

I received many more butterflies before the one that did it for me. Random stickers I would receive as a surprise with clothes I ordered from Etsy. A drawing from a little girl sitting at the table next to me at a restaurant. There was even one time where my sister texted me a photo of a butterfly saying she “just felt like taunting” me. 

While all of these helped warm me up to the idea of butterflies as more than just disgusting creatures, none of them were as powerful as that day at the park on the last day of June.

I was on a morning walk on a path where I knew no one else would walk at the same time as me. I craved solitude in the mornings and always used this time to connect with myself and with the space I occupied in that moment—both physically and mentally.

I was hardly ten minutes into my walk when I saw it. It was following me, chasing after me like its life depended on it finding me. At this point, I had warmed up more to the idea of butterflies, but seeing them invading my personal space was completely different than an image or a drawing of one. As it got closer to me, I resisted the urge to swat it out of my eyesight, though it was testing my limits. It fluttered around my arm and stomach before hovering directly in front of my face.

If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it was trying to make eye contact with me. But why would it do that? It was just some creature. Some nuisance to me and something invading the quiet simplicity of my morning walk. Nonetheless, it stayed in front of my face as I walked forward. It kept its place and I kept on my path. 

I soon realized it was not going to get out of my way, so I came to an annoyed stop. The butterfly inched closer, as though I was a scared deer in the presence of a friendly passerby. It drew closer and closer to my face, and it took all of my might to keep my arm at my side instead of swatting the butterfly away. I wasn’t comfortable, but I would never want to hurt the creature.

Delicately, it touched down on the tip of my nose. I did my best to keep my eyes on it, a headache threatening to rise due to my crossed eyes. I don’t know why I thought it would attack, but it didn't. It just sat there, wings stretched out flat, and I did my best to breathe.

It only rested there for a moment. With a few flaps of its wings, it flew away, as though it had finished its duty and was ready to go back to its family.

I carried on the rest of my day wrestling with the lingering discomfort the butterfly had left me with. After work, I had planned to meet up with a few friends for drinks. One of my friends let us know in advance that she would be bringing a new friend from work. I met her for the first time that night. 

“Addison,” She introduced herself, hand extending to mine.

“Erica,” I responded. As I looked down at our attached hands, I noticed something sticking out from the sleeve of her jean jacket. “What’s that?” I asked, maybe a bit too forward.

“Oh, that!” She sounded excited, which gave me some relief. “That’s my butterfly tattoo. Butterflies are kind of my favorite.” Her cheeks flushed as she spoke, and then the butterflies appeared in my stomach.

Drinks with friends turned into drinks with just each other. Drinks with just each other turned into dinner and a movie. The next morning I woke up to her butterfly kisses and noticed the book I’d gotten at the used book store months ago sitting on her bedside table. It turned into “I love you” and “will you move in with me?” It turned into a life that we built together.

I still am not the biggest fan of butterflies themselves, but they are more than just disgusting insects to me now. They are beauty and soulmates and serendipity. Whether it was actually her sending me the butterflies somehow or if it was a coincidence, it doesn’t matter. Because now every time I see a butterfly, I get to think of her smile. I get to think of my love.