I was bothered and sad watching this little tragedy, but when I pointed it out to my friend, who was sitting next to me on the bench, she said, "Eew! I don't like butterflies."
Huh?
"Why?" I asked her.
"I'm afraid they're going to wind up caught in my hair or something," she said.
I thought that was weird and actually very silly, but I kept quiet about it, considering I love this particular friend of mine, and she does have many, many good qualities---despite her dislike of harmless, pretty little insects.
The thing is, how do you help an injured butterfly? In the middle of a bustling Farmers' Market? At the time, I decided there was nothing I could do, so I sort of angled my body away from it and pretended it wasn't there. I focused on eating my quesadilla and making conversation with my friend and husband.
In retrospect, now that I relive the moment in my head, I think I could have tried moving the butterfly to safety, maybe lifting him off the pavement and placing him out of the path of all those feet and the occasional pick-up truck. I should have done that. Now I feel like an ass. This is a recurring pattern for me: good intentions, followed by complete inertia.
I wonder if the butterfly died later on that night? Maybe he was squished by a hapless shoe or a truck tire shortly after we left the market? Perhaps he has miraculously survived and is still struggling to take flight.
Either way, I hope he's not suffering.
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