Keeping the Caterpillar (a poem for that one daughter)

Gabrielle keeps talking about Butterfly Princess. She can do anything, Butterfly Princess, even defeat the murderous shadows in the back of the basement where an early thaw is leaving shallow puddles. The foundation was constructed a century ago by daddies who have long since left the basement. It could be a castle of the Middle Ages easily though –

Christ, to see behind those big blue-green miracles to the colorful world beneath her cottony curls. I imagine sunshine, just the light of the sun or a soul or something like that, and perhaps a smidgen of mischief.

“What’s her name, Gabby?” In bed tucked in next to her in a warm cocoon from which

I don’t really want to ever emerge to rest-of-life but we can’t be butterflies without

metamorphosis

“What’s her name?” — (grown-up impatience) — her name is Butterfly Princess.

“That’s her title, that’s what she is, doesn’t she have a name?”

Her name is Butterfly Princess, not Title.

Feeling foolish I roll over and wrap the cocoon tighter. Butterfly be damned, I want to keep my caterpillar.