by Dyane Forde
The white shoe box rests expectantly on the grass. What to put in it?
Out in a grassy field, nestled in a luscious outdoor world filled with trees, wild flowers, and butterflies, I spy the perfect things to make Mother happy. I pick one up and drop it in my grubby, chubby palm.
I throw open the front door, bound up the stairs heading straight for Mother’s pristine bedroom.
‘Mommy! A gift!’ I thrust the open box at her.
Smiling, Mother turns. But the smile fades, replaced with a screech of horror.
‘Get those out of the house!’
I look at the writing, inter-twined mass of colourful, fuzzy caterpillars.
One day they’ll be butterflies.
Mother looks green.
I close the box.