Anticipation, by Lyra Whinnery

chrysalis: almost the entire animal dissolves and reforms at the cellular level to create something completely new. It’s an incredible feat of nature, worthy of our wonder and admiration. “Be like a butterfly,” people say. “You may have gone through a mighty struggle, but you’ll transform into something beautiful and strong.” What about the butterfly that emerges from its chrysalis deformed and unable to fly? Is it still worthy?

I’m standing in the garden, looking into the chrysalis room as my coworker attempts a rescue. A freshly birthed butterfly sprawls on its back at the bottom of the glass enclosure, legs wiggling wildly. Emerging from the chrysalis usually takes a few moments; afterward the butterfly hangs upside down for several hours, pumping fluid into its wings to stiffen them and prepare for flight. This particular individual had hatched with misshapen wings, and had quickly lost its grip on the chrysalis and tumbled to the bottom of the enclosure. My coworker uses a paintbrush to carefully scoop it into a small container. “This guy’s gonna be a walker, I think,” she says when she hands the container to Radical

me. I carry it to the secluded gravel area, open the container, and ever-so-gently grasp the gnarly wings between the knuckles of my index and middle fingers. The butterfly waves its legs around indignantly. I place it on the food plate. When I check back a few minutes later, it’s happily slurping banana juice with the other walkers. I’ve been at the zoo for months now. Medication stabilized, able to work, go back to school, and have a life, looking after my lovely and unique butterwalker friends. I’m still damaged—a piece of my soul is charred and scraggly—and that’s okay. Radical transformations aren’t always pretty. The butterwalkers taught me that imperfection has its own sort of beauty. Each of their little butter souls has value, and so does mine.

Sometimes, early in the morning before anyone else has arrived, I walk around the garden with a butterwalker standing in my cupped palm. I move my arm up and down to simulate the sensation of flight. She stretches her broken wings and wiggles her antenna in what I interpret as pure butterfly delight. As the sun fills the garden with morning warmth, I feel something akin to peace, frolicking through the greenery with a butterwalker. For more than an instant, we both fly.