I always hate cleaning my room.. I never throw anything out and there are layers of permajunk everywhere. Today I came across some postcards written by a butterfly I raised for a school project in seventh grade. See, seventh grade science students were required to raise a caterpillar into a butterfly while recording observations about its growth. I was really quite sad when I had to release my butterfly - who came to be known as “Cappy 2”, short for “Caterpillar 2”, seeing as I killed my first one, but that’s not important - at a nearby nature reserve. My dad sensed this, so he got his friends and relatives to write me postcards under the name “Cappy 2”, as if my old butterfly was still keeping in contact with me.
Cards came in from Seattle, Florida, Wisconsin, Canada.. some places more than once. Cappy 2 had kept busy with meeting new butterfly friends, going bowling in just about every city he visited, and attending Bruce Springsteen concerts.
Inevitably, the postcards stopped arriving in the mail, and I only really understand now how much I relied on them, despite me knowing that they were obviously not written by my old butterfly. I know that Cappy 2 died fairly soon after I released him, but I felt like his life had really ended when the cards stopped coming in. As ridiculous as it sounds, I legitimately feel like I lost a really good friend.
All of a sudden, I don’t want to go to college, but the cycle has to begin again eventually.