Out We Fly

It was a yearly tradition and we always traveled to the village for it. My grandparents would gather leaves from the fig trees in the farm and store them in a rather large room of the house then, closed it off for about a month to let the caterpillars do their magic. We were in it for the cotton. They were in it for the ride.

That year something was amiss. My parents gathered the leaves with my grandfather, but grandma was far away in a hospital room. I would hear my father telling my mother that it was "severe". I didn't know what.

Long after the caterpillars were locked in the room, at night I would sneak out and talk to my little caterpillar, the one I had secretly kept for myself. I would wonder if grandma was alright. He didn't say anything but I knew he could hear me.

A few days later, my parents left in a hurry, along with my grandfather. My mother held my shoulders and told me to stay inside and be careful and that they would be back soon; I was ten, you see. I knew they were going to the hospital. I just wished grandma was alright.

At noon, my mother wasn't back yet and I had worn out every toy I had. Even the cartoons were getting boring. As I wandered outside, I saw the locked door standing tall in a corner. I wasn't supposed to open it. But, it was time. I thought of all the butterflies entrapped in there in the dark. I reassured my hesitant hands and opened the lock and as soon as the door was open, hundreds of butterflies poured out and into the sky. It was the strength of a long entrapped soul set free.