Butterfly in the Subway Station

Today I saw a butterfly in the subway station.

We looked at each other. And then we moved out of the way.

Moved out of the way as the subway deposited the packs of people out onto the subway platform.

People that were hit by the thick, humid air of summer, after being freshly air conditioned.

Other people who felt the air as relief, as they were freed from a subway car with no air conditioning.

Regardless of how the people felt the air, this was the air that filled this butterfly’s wings.

That enabled the butterfly to get higher, higher, until he was above the pre-occupied human heads down below.

Pre-occupied. Some were going to work, others taking their children to a new park after their local park had lost its appeal. Some were getting their long-awaited hair-cut. First date. Dry Cleaners. Grocery store.

The clicks and thumps of the turn-styles sang out.

I didn’t notice where the butterfly landed.

I too was preoccupied. Must get up the stairs where it’s cooler.

Must get coffee before work.

Must get to work on time.

Musn’t fall over my sandals as I hurried along.

Must keep breathing through the mask.

This mask. This mask had a loose thread on the inside.

That was going to drive me crazy.

Crazy. A name I call myself. Until I sternly tell myself to stop listening to my thoughts and steer my brain in another direction.

If I had a super-power I would wish to fly. I could zip around through the air and arrive at destinations at lightning speed.

I could fly over the turn-styles.

I would never trip over my sandals.

I would fly effortlessly so I’d be able to breathe through my mask just fine.

In fact, I wouldn’t wear a mask, for I’d be up in the air all by myself.

Just me. And the butterfly. Maybe I’d let the butterfly come too.

And well, probably some birds, too, but I’d steer clear of them.

Alfred Hitchcock has ruined birds for me.

Ruined. How I feel when I think too hard about my circumstances.

Thoughts. Busy; jumbled; bustling.

New York’s bustle is not quite the same but a bustle non-the-less.

Pandemic. A big word. A word without air. Gut punching. Helpless.

We’ve stopped clapping. Seven o’clock comes around and it’s quiet.

We’re tired.

Quiet.

Bustling despite the no air.

I think of that butterfly.

I had left it behind.

The butterfly was in the subway station.

Butterflies don’t belong in stuffy subway stations.

They belong nestled on the tops of brightly colored flowers.

They are meant to dance with the leaves of trees.

They aren’t meant to dodge people bustling out of trains.

I wonder if it was confused.

Or, maybe it often winds up in places where butterflies aren’t meant to be.

Maybe it was enjoying a new adventure.

Maybe it can survive in the subway station just fine.

Today I saw a butterfly in the subway station.

We looked at each other. And then we moved out of the way.