The Butterfly’s Daughter by Mary Alice, Monroe Page A

was assailed again by her grandmother’s scent, more powerful here than on the sheets. She slipped on Abuela’s ruby flannel robe and, tying it around herself, felt wrapped in her grandmother’s arms. Then she hurried down the hall, through the kitchen to the back porch.
    The early morning light played tricks with the lush green plant leaves, dappling the floor with shadows. Her first smile in over a week played on her lips as she spied a magnificent monarch butterfly perched on the windowsill. Coming closer, she stretched on tiptoe to study the gorgeous burnt orange wings separated by thick, black veins in a pattern Abuela had always compared to stained glass. It was a female.
    â€œHello, beautiful,” she whispered.
    Luz leaned against the wood worktable and patiently waited, watching, while the monarch’s wings hardened in the morning light. Eventually the butterfly became more sure-footed and climbed steadily to the top of the window frame. There, like a triumphant mountain climber, she flapped her wings exuberantly. Luz climbed atop a bench to slowly put out her hand toward the butterfly. The young, untested butterfly delicately stepped onto her finger. Luz felt the tickle of minuscule feet on her skin.
    â€œCome meet the world,” she said as she carried the butterfly into the garden.
    The long rain had finally ended and the morning sun seemed to say, Enough of lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself. The rain is over! No more tears!
    Luz breathed in the newness of the air and lifted her face to the sun’s warmth. Maybe it was because there’d been so many days of rain, or because this one butterfly lifted her spirits as nothing else had since her grandmother’s death, but Luz felt almost giddy as she watched the delicate creature perched on her finger flutter her wings like a coquette would her lashes.
    For the next hour Luz played with the monarch in her grandmother’s garden. She’d never in her life held such an endearing butterfly. This monarch didn’t immediately fly away, as they were wont to do. This one lingered to walk up her arm, flutter to her shoulder, her head, tickling her as she landed on her nose. It seemed reluctant to leave, even when Luz gently nudged the butterfly to her fingertip. The monarch remained and let the morning sun shimmer on her wings.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Luz whispered to her. She lifted her hand over her head toward the sun. The monarch fluttered her wings. “It’s time. Jump!”
    On a whisper of breeze, the butterfly flew off.
    Luz watched the butterfly glide around the garden and return to circle her once, then again, before flying higher over the fence. Luz watched until she could no longer see the graceful flicker of orange against the brilliant blue sky. From a place deep in her heart Luz heard her grandmother’s voice. I want to go home. To the mountains of Mexico.
    Luz went still. She’d prayed for a sign and her prayer was answered. Her grandmother told her that sometimes she had to listen with her heart rather than her mind. She listened now and in that miraculous instant, Luz knew what she had to do. For once she would silence her doubt and ignore her shivers of fear.
    For once, she would be brave and say yes !

Four
    In all the world, no butterflies migrate like the monarchs of North America. Their migration is more the type we expect from birds or whales. However, unlike birds and whales that make the round-trip, it is the monarch’s great-great-grandchildren that return south the following fall.
    L uz took a final look around the quiet house. She’d given a key to Sully, who promised to water the plants. Mrs. Rodriguez would keep an eye on the house. She fingered the soft, worn leather of her grandmother’s wallet. Luz had nearly a thousand dollars from her savings account, plus another four hundred and change from Abuela. It had to be enough.
    Turning, she faced the deep rose sky of