Last summer a yellow swallowtail butterfly was trapped in my bedroom. Yellow swallowtails are a rare sight at my house, and I thought it was so beautiful. I have vaulted ceilings, and it just kept bumping against a high window. Bump, bump, bump. Looking for escape. Looking for freedom. I tried to help it with a broom without crushing it, but it fell on the floor, and I couldn't find it. A few days later I heard it again. Bump, bump, bump. I had another try, and another failure at helping the gorgeous creature. Soon I found it dead, and perfect on my floor. I kept it. I make jewelry, and I thought it was too beautiful to throw away, but it always seemed too sad of a project. Just before Christmas, when I found out that the surgery we were hoping would help wouldn't be the miracle we were hoping for, and that you would be coming home for goodbyes, I was looking for a way to express my sorrow. The butterfly came to mind. I made the perfect wing into a pendant with a blank and resin. Then I strung it on a necklace of black beads. I didn't wear it yet. Today, I spoke at your funeral. I wanted to wear it. It had come to symbolize you somehow in a way I  couldn't put my finger on. You too were beautiful and rare, and I couldn't save you either. As we prepared to leave your coffin at the cemetary with feathery white, snowy trees all around, I knew what I needed to do. I left the necklace draped across your coffin to be buried with you. At least, in some small way, I gave you wings.