to up to six months, which I learned in Costa Rica at a butterfly garden. I used to chase them in the wild in
Chengdu, at night, then touch and gently squeeze their wings when they
land on the bud of a flower or its leaves. I wasn’t sure if not washing my hands afterwards affected my
mortality. If I only had six months to live from beginning to end, I would
fly all over the garden – land, touch, and smell every flower possible. I would make as many
friends as I can, tell them jokes and make them laugh, hear their jokes and make them laugh. At night, I
wake up the more adventurous butterflies to escape. We fly over to where they call the elevator the
lift, the bathroom, the loo, and football really having to do with the foot kicking the ball, or its nearby
country an hour and a half away by going 936 kilometers per hour, where they pride themselves in
bicycles and canals. We study what we enjoy, make friends with other animals, drink water
different from the tank back home, slurp pollen and honey made from vegetables above
different ground, learn what we do not know. As time passes, I grow tired day by day, no longer the young
butterfly who wanted to see and feel everything. I still enjoy all the different water buckets in the
new gardens, new species, and plants brought in by the caretaker. During the day, I examine my
wings, see if their color, texture, or powder has changed. I sing to my new and old friends,
share emotions and compiled philosophies, and when it is time to go, we dance and sing so
loudly that honeybees stop working and applaud.