Mariposa

A green cocoon

hung from my grandfather’s bicycle.

I watched, wide-eyed,

as he whispered to me about what was happening in there.

His voice—

gentle, deep.

His brown eyes misted over,

mustache moving up and down with his words.

That—

was the last memory I had of him

before I left my country,

before I left Costa Rica.

I would not see him again

for twenty years.

I still hear the hammer—

tap, tap, tap—

against shoes in his shed.

My grandfather,

the cobbler.

Black lined his fingernails.

Calluses gripped his palms.

His small eyes squinted in concentration—

except on that day.

That day,

his focus was not on work.

It rested on his oldest granddaughter,

no older than eight.

Rain pelted the tin roof—

a symphony above us.

It relaxed him.

But not that day.

That day he looked at me.

“One day, the little creature inside

will become a beautiful butterfly…”

But he wasn’t looking at the cocoon anymore.

I didn’t understand it then.

I didn’t understand the frailty of her wings,

the struggle to stretch them out.

I didn’t understand the darkness—

that place where no one sees,

where only God knows the inner-workings.

That secret place

where crawling things are broken down

and remade into flying things.

No one told me

that to earn her wings,

the butterfly had to die to everything she knew.

Her body had to break down,

rearrange itself,

surrender her crawling,

surrender her eating,

surrender her familiar ground.

She would never crawl again.

Only fly.

My grandfather knew this.

And though he did not see me for twenty years,

one day,

we sat together again.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him

his Mariposa

still thought about her days as a caterpillar.

Why should a butterfly cry?

Why should she try again to crawl?

Absurd.

So... why do I?

I’ve been through the darkness.

I’ve left it behind.

And yet—

my heart yearns for the safety of the familiar,

even if the familiar brought darkness and pain.

But now—

a new breeze warms my wings.

It beckons me.

I shift.

And it lifts me.

Fly.

Is a butterfly afraid?

No.

Fly.

Does she wonder if she’ll fall?

No.

Fly.

Does she think at all she’ll fail?

No.

Fly.

She was born for this!

So was I.