She was 12 that year, and already planning how she would look, disembarking an airplane, greeting her dashing companion with smoldering wit and careless gaiety, her scarf fluttering in the breeze like trails of laughter and wings.

Is Cupid jealous of Butterfly?  In a cage match, who wins – Love or Psyche?

Oh, I don’t know, I just make this sh*t up.

She was very specific.  She said, “Tell Liz the Butterfly Artists are rooting for her!”

She showed me exactly what she wanted.

Funny:  I would never do what my mother told me when she was alive; now that she is dead, I do whatever she says.

(It’s exactly what I wanted!  Love you, baby – mom)

I have inklings of butterflies…Don’t you?

The world she wished permeated the world as it was, and she breezed, effortless as the flutter of eyelashes, until you believed.  And who is to say I don’t do the same and for the same reason? Pouring pent up love over all the nights when only fireflies could save you. Now we are so literal, such good journalists recounting our slights and conditionals; but to her a better story was a better story, and no less valuable than the truth, and she was not alone, in her time, in that point of view. I love the dog most of all.