The butterfly book and I were inseparable. When I was three years old, my grandmother gave me an adult butterfly encyclopedia, and I read it nonstop for months. I didn’t just admire the pictures; I spewed scientific butterfly facts to anyone who would listen until I drove them crazy. I was so obsessed, for a three-year-old, that it was frankly kind of bizarre.
Shortly after I got the book, my family visited the New York City Museum of Natural History, and, as fate would have it, the butterfly exhibit was open. I was so ecstatic that I could barely stand it. When I walked into the lush green jungle, my eyes lit up like a Christmas tree; I pointed out different species and twirled around, taking it all in. One of the workers welcomed us and described the rules of the exhibit, but my eyes were fixated on a display case depicting metamorphosis. I pointed to the case and blurted out, “Chrysalis!” She looked at me in awe, utterly astounded that a toddler could identify a chrysalis. She asked me to follow her to see something special. “Put out your hand,” she whispered, and a gorgeous yellow swallowtail floated down and perched on my finger. People stopped to gather around me and observe with reverence and amazement. Most three-year-olds probably would’ve crushed the delicate insect, but I stood as still as a statue with my jaw hanging open. I watched its intricate wings flap back and forth like rustling leaves in a morning breeze. After fourteen years, that day is still imbedded in my memory. For me, it represents the first moment when my passion for learning allowed me to find deep meaning in the simplest creature.
Seven years passed, and my Nonna — the same grandmother who gave me the butterfly book — died. I remember being distraught, crying in my room, when I suddenly caught a glimpse of a yellow swallowtail flitting past my window. From that moment on, Nonna has sent me yellow butterflies. Whenever I’m having a particularly awful day or find myself in unfamiliar territory, if I see a swallowtail I am instantly reassured. Just as the caterpillar is reborn as a butterfly, Nonna’s death was more like a metamorphosis than an end. I cannot point to a page in the encyclopedia where it explains how or why she sends them to me, but every time I see one, I know deep down that the creature is far more than a head, thorax, and abdomen. Butterflies are hope for something better after this life, evidence of my grandmother’s love, and a way to get me through the day when I need it most.
Did you know that most butterflies only live for a few days, or that they taste with their feet? I firmly believe that the chrysalis-screaming-three-year-old who is fascinated by these facts, and the grieving grandson who finds assurance in butterflies without any concrete evidence, are both still alive inside me. It seems strange that these differing narratives converge to form what butterflies mean to me, but I don’t think of them as contradictory in the slightest. In fact, I’ve found it’s nearly impossible to live with one and not the other. If I search only for abstractions and what lies beyond comprehension, then I couldn’t marvel at the pattern of a yellow swallowtail’s wing or the complex mechanism that allows it to fly. Conversely, if I lead my life focusing only on what can be memorized and observed, none of these facts really amount to anything. What a mundane world it would be if the butterfly could not contain love and sorrow and countless other meanings within its wings. I strive to search for the balance between the tangible and unexplainable; the world is my butterfly — replete with significance on and below the surface that I tirelessly work to find.