Just Another Rainy Day… Until It Wasn’t
The heavy rain finally beat the harsh summer heat, reviving the parched land. The world felt alive again; thirsty birds splashed in puddles, the once-cracked earth was now soft and healing. Oh, how I love the sound of the rain — it’s noisy but in a good way. People outside must be drenched, yet feeling cozy inside. I curled up like a ball, a cozy fantasy novel in hand, vibing with each droplet that danced on the ground, creating a symphony for my ears. If you asked me, I’d always say summer rains are my favorite, their unpredictability making them all the more delightful. The rain that follows a scorching heat much more adorable than rain that just drops by every day.
The cool breeze that made its way through the balcony, felt lively and fresh making me feel like I just had a shower but literally earth took the bath not me. I could smell the fragrance of mud and grass in the free flow. I craved some spicy ramen, so I went downstairs.
I don’t quite enjoy cooking in summer; just the thought of getting sticky and sweaty makes me feel full. But today, I craved some ramen. The thing with ramen is that you can either cook it in 10 minutes or take an hour, and yes, I took an hour preparing all the dressings. The chopped onion leaves, soy sauce mixture, carrots, cabbage, sausages, half-boiled eggs — all went into it, along with Bok choy. On a lovely day such as this, with a view of rain-kissed green grass outside my window, the shifting light and gentle cooling breeze after the rain, I feel inspired to create anything.
After satisfying my hunger, I noticed the rain had stopped, making me go outside for a leisurely walk. Everything appeared sharper, as if I had just cleaned my dusty glasses. The lingering coolness remained in the air. I walked circles in my small garden, shaking the large guava and avocado trees. There’s something delightful about the sensation of raindrops on my skin — it evokes a childlike joy with each tender touch.
My feet seemed to carry me effortlessly as I became lost in the geraniums in the pot, the blooming jasmines, the lilies, the lady fingers sprouting — all fully nourished. My smile faded gradually as my gaze fell upon something at my feet in the far-right corner — a butterfly, adorned with black and white polka dots, was in distress. Its delicate wings, which must have traveled to places I’ll never know, were soaked and soggy on the hard cement. Its legs trembled, moving shakily with a restless urgency as though the very foundation of the world was crumbling beneath it. Panic radiated from its tiny form as it struggled desperately to rise, yet seemed unable to do so.
In the very moment, my instinct to rescue overtook me. I searched for a stick or shovel or a broom anything I could find that might serve as a lifeline to turn it right side up so it could be free. After all, we all want freedom, and I can’t think of a better symbol of freedom than a butterfly. I always envied butterflies — how they could go anywhere, sit on beautiful flowers, and look so pretty. But I had never seen this side of them, so helpless, so stuck. I couldn’t bear it. I grabbed whatever I could find in the garden — a shovel, a bamboo stick, a gardening utensil which I don’t know the name of. It took only a few seconds. “I am back to save you,” I said, but it remained motionless. Within seconds, it looked lifeless. I couldn’t save it. I felt numb for this little creature who was nothing to me had now formed a connection to me f only its struggle had remained unseen, perhaps my heart wouldn’t ache so. In its dying moments, I became its silent witness, watching as its spirit surrendered to the gentle embrace of the unknown. I watched as this creature, once full of vigor, went from struggling for life to taking its last breath. I felt a pang of guilt; How fragile can one’s existence be? perhaps its soul would curse me for not intervening sooner, or maybe it cried out for a more dignified end — a stuck-out death for a butterfly seemed undeniably cruel.
I couldn’t even look at it now; I was overcome with emotion. Witnessing its struggle, its futile efforts, and then its demise — it was heartbreaking. I carried on with my walk, but my thoughts lingered on the cruelty of fate. I wished I had come down sooner, wished I had not eaten ramen but instead strolled in the garden. Perhaps then, the butterfly would still be flying, not knocked down. It might have gone somewhere else, unseen by me, and perhaps it would still be alive. But that was not the case. Reality struck me hard. The soul of that being must be roaming here now, and I am the first one it sees. I know it deserves a goodbye. Although it won’t make any sense to the dead, it would bring me some solace, knowing that I was there to bid it a final act of compassion. They say the soul leaves the body within seven minutes, and it had only been a few minutes. With a dust picker in hand and a heavy heart, I approached, intent on granting it the farewell it deserved. I placed the picker gently beside its delicate wings, intending to lift it from the ground. Then, something happened that gave me a spark of hope and feeling that miracles do happen, the slightest movement of its antennae. I felt a crying feeling that you feel when you are suddenly overjoyed but your heart is still going through this state of sadness and now your mind is confused what’s going on? I picked myself up with a selfish desire to save it. With careful precision, I positioned the picker close to its injured wings, ensuring not to cause further harm. I attempted to lift it from the side silently wishing for its cooperation. To my amazement, it responded with perfect synchronization, lifting its body slightly so I could place the dust picker on its back. It was a moment of pure connection, as if we were two souls with shared purpose, that is life. Though its eyes remained hidden, I could sense the gratitude immersing from its being.
After one seamless attempt, the butterfly found itself on its feet once more. Despite its lingering injuries, the joy of witnessing its revival filled my heart with warmth. There is a profound beauty in offering aid to those in need, a beauty that transcends words. As the butterfly adjusted itself, it turned slightly towards me, its antenna pointing in my direction. Overwhelmed with emotion, I whispered softly, “You heal soon,” knowing that our encounter had touched me in ways I could never fully express. I gently lifted the delicate creature from the hard cement ground, placing it tenderly upon a fragrant jasmine flower. I was satisfied with my small act of kindness and resumed my walk being mindful not to disturb its recovery. I couldn’t help but watched it from distance. It merely moved as if contemplating its own journey. I went back inside, believing in nature’s ability to help it heal.
Later, I joined my husband for a walk, excitedly sharing my butterfly story. We returned to where I left it, but it was gone. Oddly, I felt happy imagining it flying free. Suddenly, my husband mentioned seeing a white butterfly near the plant. Intrigued, I scanned the area, but my eyes were drawn instead to the lily leaves, where I spotted it — not white, but my beloved black polka-dotted butterfly. The brave and resilient one, perched atop the lily leaves. I couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride at its tiny accomplishment.
I snapped a photo, preserving the moment as a precious memory. A quick search in google revealed its gender — a male butterfly.
I returned home with hope in my heart, silently wishing not to see it again. I yearned for its freedom to grace another’s garden, flying beyond my own.
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