Never under estimate the power of the number 115. Particularly not when staring down a temperature gauge.
Had I recognized its intensity, I might not have found myself doing point-ballet from my car to my front door after walking outside barefoot musing, “How bad could it be?”
Rushing toward the minivan’s shadow, eyes on my burning toes, I danced over a resting butterfly. Despite its attempts to flutter away, it barely hovered over the steaming cement.
My heels fell to the ground as I stooped to lift the delicate creature from where it lay nearly paralyzed.
In the cool of our air conditioner, we sat for a while. Drop by drop, it drank from my palm.
Until, finally, it had its fill. And found its peace.
I carried the lightly quivering soul to a flower pot in my garden. Separating the blossoming leaves, I laid it down to rest.
“Slow down,” I almost heard it whisper.
“Slow down. Life is too short for you to be racing.
“Slow down. You are too young to be aching.