Today, the sun shone bright.

When I stepped out from the car this morning, the birds were chirping cheerfully, the decorated portion of the lawn unblemished, blooming with summer flowers. Most of the front yard was concrete—the grass replaced to guarantee minimal maintenance.

As I continued toward the door to my grandma’s house, I noticed an unusually close bird. We startled each other, and I stepped aside. The sparrow flew off into a tree, revealing a twitching monarch butterfly, fluttering helplessly on the warm concrete.

My parents went ahead innocently, disappearing into the house, while the bird hopped around some branches before departing. I thought it must have been curious—nothing really touched monarch butterflies. My grandma called to me from inside.

I walked over to the butterfly, kneeling beside it, wondering what had happened. It flailed on its back, its wings seemingly stiff. No obvious injuries. I offered my finger gently for it to climb upon. I knew it would die.

It was weak. It clung to my finger, but when I tried to raise it to take flight, it just fell. My grandma came out the door to get me, and seeing what I was looking at, picked up a slipper and insisted on squashing it. I moved away from the butterfly and greeted her before she could approach, shaking my head. I said no, doing my best to reject the idea—we did not speak the same language. I agreed to go inside if we just left the butterfly alone.

I focused on eating breakfast for a short while. I finished quickly and went back outside. I thought I ought to pray for it—for an overwhelming sorrow was welling within. I let it climb onto my finger once more, and as delicately as possible, placed it beneath the shade of a smaller tree.

I sat with the butterfly, watching it struggle, feeling a sentiment—all too familiar—return. There was an intimacy as I extended my hand to gently hold it—tears pooling and falling from my eyes as I mourned something that had barely any weight.

It flailed with two legs—the other two missing—the remaining crossed and stiff. Its wings hardly opened, and yet they fluttered and twitched. I wondered then if I should have let Grandma take care of it. Killing it might have been a heroic act. But I didn’t have the heart. I figured to leave it be.

I stepped back and sat upon a low brick wall, watching it quietly from afar. The exotic calls of birds echoed overhead. One perched on a power pole sang an ecstatic, diverse melody. It jumped into the air, caught the wind, and landed all at once.

I watched it perform—so brightly, so elegantly—so much like a bird I once held close. I wondered if this is what my sister would have wanted for us. If she could give us one more life, one more chance to live our fullest, one more chance to be oblivious—it would be in the form of a bird.

It was a bright day. I was the only one there for the butterfly as it died. I don’t know if it felt my grief—but I sat with it, and I prayed it did. All while the birds chirped so vividly.

My parents and Grandma thought I was playing with the butterfly, because I changed my face when they saw me. I didn’t bother to clarify.