She was the butterfly girl. In every season, butterflies would land on her out stretched hands, her skirt, her shoulder. She wore a bracelet of tiny coloured bells; she tinkled when she waved.
Waved? Are you mad – she’s a statute made to look bronze. She’s phony. You rescued a garden ornament, broken by winter’s snow.
A snow she didn’t stay whole in, but I had enjoyed her so for 8 years. I picked up the broken pieces, placed her arms lovingly in her lap. Put two of her butterflies on my shelf.
They took her away this summer. One minute she was still there, broken but ever smiling. Then gone, trashed, garbage dump. But she lives on in stories based on her picture.
Written to add to the photo prompt Priceless Joy used in Challenge 69 of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.