The earliest memory that i have is about a particular moment when i was still in pre-school. It was probably summer, or a weekend: that morning i felt too eager to play, having no classes I must go to. There was this wide lawn in front of our house, lined up with shrubs of hisbiscus in a procession of green and red, where my siblings and i played with the rest of the neighborhood kids. It was still early and the feline wind felt cold as it wrapped its tail on my bare legs.
I saw it flit from one shrub to another, taking a taste of nectar from this and that flower. It seemed delicate, its yellow wings looked as if it was about to melt in the morning sun, like the scrap of butter I spread on the warm pandesal I had for breakfast.
This spread of butter, though, looked more enticing than breakfast. I immediately grabbed the red-and-yellow mesh bag that we use to buy items at the wet market. It smelled of fish and salt and it felt coarse in my hands, as if it were made of fine, irritating sand. Its mouth appeared wide enough to catch the butterfly.
I held the bag with excitement and hid right behind the bushes. The butterfly just went on with its business of nectar and dancing. I jumped at it, and suddenly everything was a blur of red and blue and yellow and mud brown. Before I landed on the ground I saw the butterfly panicking, surprised by the attack; it looked too fragile and delicately beautiful.
It was the last time I saw it alive.
Butterflies never left me since then.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The men who had kissed me in the nape never noticed how their lips unlocked electric butterflies down my spine. When I see beautiful and familiar napes, while walking around strange cities or while sipping coffee, butterflies congregate in my stomach. Their delicious fragility descends to my knees, and the things that I touch explode with their colors.
