Buggerfly

I wish I could say I took this photo. Just look at the depth of color. The clarity of her wings. The contrast of the blue sky with her black body. It’s well composed—like it could be taken from a catalog. Except it was taken out of my husband’s hands. My wonderfully, annoyingly good-at-everything husband’s hands.

And you should know, the pictures were taken from several feet away. With the camera up over his head. In the 15 seconds the butterfly rested. How is this possible? How? How did he get this shot?

I tried to get her picture too. After all, this is my hobby. I’m the one who is supposed to be taking the pictures. This is my adventure. But those butterflies were flitting and fluttering around. Showing off. Acting suspicious. Like they knew we were trying to get a good picture. And I just couldn’t get it together with all the flips and dips and turns.

Focusing on them in the finder of the camera was impossible, so Brandon told me to just chase them with the lens and snap in quick succession. I set the camera to “Sports,” so the faster shutter speed could capture the quick movements of the wings.

No go. Blurry leaves. Blank sky. Yellow smudges.

But I think I know the real reason I couldn’t get a picture. I think it could have been the ducking. And the hiding. And the squealing. And the darting behind Brandon. I don’t get along very well with butterflies. They’re sneaky. And unpredictable. Anytime they’d get close enough for a shot, I’d flail to the side and forget I was supposed to actually take the photo. I was just worried they’d flutter in my face. Or worse—they’d land on me.

Twenty years ago, my family went to the zoo and decided to stroll through one of those enclosed butterfly rooms. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I remember the bright colors. The dank smell. The clouds of butterflies on the ceiling. And then I heard my dad say, “There you go. There’s one!” I whirled around to see where he was pointing, and realized he was pointing at me. At my behind. This bright yellow butterfly had landed right on my rear. She looked up at me with those buggy eyes and furry legs and big black antennas. I think it was the first time I realized a butterfly was actually a bug. And I don’t like bugs.

So I flipped. Squealed. Panicked. Burst into tears. There I was, a butterfly stuck to my behind and my dad just kept chuckling. I didn’t want to touch her buggy body, so I just stood there looking desperately, frantically for help. What did she want from me? Why didn’t she just leave me alone? My dad made one swipe. A second swipe. She just wouldn’t budge. He didn’t want to touch her either, but mostly because he didn’t want to damage her fragile body. He eventually had to unwrap the sweatshirt from my waist before he could shake the butterfly off.

But it was too late for me. That was it. The encounter was too close. I wasn’t ready. She caught me off guard. Disrespected my 5-year-old boundaries. So that was it, no more fluttery bugs for me.

I’m not too disappointed about not getting a good picture to show you. They’re just bugs, people. Bugs. Yuck.