The Butterfly

One of my daughters' favourite past-times is exploring the complex in which we live. Her favourite haunts being the pool and a little alcove, filled with pebbles and ringed with large stones, nestled between two houses. Every other afternoon my Father pops over and calls for Elizabeth through the screen door. Her face lights up and she immediately stops whatever she was doing and takes my hand to help her open the door for her Pa. Putting on her shoes I watch my daughter run after her Grandfather down the road, like two truants looking for what they can get up to next. Suddenly she stops and bends over to scope up something up off the road. Thinking the worse I come over and investigate. Cradled gently in her hand is a beautiful, little butterfly. It alights there for moment before fluttering off.