Filing through the books stacked neatly at the roadside bookstall, I am startled by a familiar butterfly. It hovers near me once — saying hello — before flying off, sniffing pages on its way.
It left behind a soft bloom of joy. Butterfly joy is easily bruised, though. I don’t let myself warm to it too earnestly in that way that the heart grabs hold of all accidental happy. I make room for it — silently breathless — the way that one does when someone you love sits next to you unexpectedly and you wish they never get up again.