Butterfly

Just now, as I was walking from the train station, there was a beautiful orange butterfly just standing there on the concrete ground. Odd, I thought. Was it injured?

I put my right hand on the ground in front of it. It climbed on.

It climbed on my hand to the top of my thumb as I walked home. I trekked slowly as to not pick up wind so that it would not fall off. It understood, raising its wings as the wind ran parallel through it. Then it lowered its wings to my hand to gain stability.

I felt the pricking sensation on my wrist feeling like dozens of needles as it explored the creature it was on.

A woman walking behind me must've thought I was weird. She was catching up, so I walked a little faster but still slowly. I crossed the street. She did too. I walked at a slower pace, looking down, keeping my right hand frozen out in front of me. I turned right onto another street, then took a glance back. (Well that's how I know she was a woman.)

I was at my doorstep, but I couldn't get the keys in my bag with a butterfly on one hand. I stood there. I stopped moving, and it started moving, climbing up my arm.

I let it go. I had to. What would I be doing with it? Keep it in a jar? No, it belongs to nature.

This is one of those moments I regret. Kind of. Well, it's that feeling. I flew and quickly blended into the darkness.

I opened my door, turned on the light, and looked back. I checked the porch and the stairs. Nope, not a sign. But the presence of it at all and the decision it took for me to turn left in order to encounter it may have been one in itself.