ButterflyI am 5 years old, wearing boots even though the sun is shining. My thoughts are still young and my words is yet to be insightful. In front of me,on the ground,lays a lifeless butterfly.I crouch down,just to get a better look.My small hands touch it, slightly."Don't," she says.I look up at her.She's just a silhouette,the sun erasing her features. "Sorry," I say. I feel her hand on my shoulder,calm and soft. "It's dead," she says.I frown."That means it can't fly anymore," she continues.I nod. "Mom says I'm a butterfly," she says.I remember wanting her not to be one.