"When she was young and her parents would fight, she would lay out in the field next to their house and watch the monarchs flutter about as if dodging the wind itself. Their flights, both erratic and graceful, seemed to be the expressions of joyful creatures laughing their way through the meadows. Years later, when the handsome boy from the farm down the road took her by the hand and lead her to a lonesome tree to kiss her, gently and innocently, the monarchs were there as well. Bundled against him and the bark of the elm, she could hear their amber wings as loudly as the brook below the hill. And when her father killed her mother and then turned the gun on himself, she watched out the window of the police car as every butterfly she had ever seen dipped and rose in unison while leaving her home for a better world.
She heard she was being sent to live with relatives in the city, and the last thing she did before she left the pastures of her youth was run into the field one last time to retrieve the only source of comfort she had ever known. Ever so delicately, she collected as many fallen monarchs as she could along with a piece of plastic from the garage about the size of a window frame. When she arrived in the city, she glued the deceased butterflies to the transparent plastic and put it in front of her window. Every day and every night, no matter how loudly the cars honked or the sirens blared, the monarchs outside her window would never fly away, never leave her ever again." -M.D. Walter