When I was about nine, I remember a strong, flirty summer wind blowing a monarch butterfly onto the deck just outside our house. He didn’t fly away though, so I gingerly picked him up to see what was the matter. The problem was that one of his wings had been damaged, almost broken in two (doubtlessly a result of the wind). I thought I could save him so I took him inside, got a bit of scotch tape from my mom’s desk and took him into my room. There, I placed a piece of tape (that I tore longways to make it thinner) on each side of the break. The wing stood up and looked healthy. Just as any good surgeon would do, I kept him overnight to ensure his safe and full recovery. I brought in lots of the outside world in the form of grass, leaves and flowers, to make him feel more at home. I kept him in a little basket, and never thought twice about the fact that he hadn’t tried to fly out. 

The next day I took him back outside, ready for discharge. I put my hands up, with him cradled inside and he flew away. It was unimportant at the time that the wind was again blowing as it had the day before. My mind did not for one second think that perhaps it was the gust of wind and not the butterfly’s ability or desire to fly that took him from the deck back to the skies. I was happy and proud that I had saved him. My mom laughs about the story, recalling how silly I was to think that plastic tape would repair a delicate orange and black wing of the monarch.

I’d like to think she’s wrong, if for no other reason than he got one more (albeit it simulated) flight before his short life came to an end.