ButterflyI am 5 years old,wearing boots even though the sun is shining.My thoughts are still young andmy 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.