3D monarch butterfly on upper back

The butterfly came in through the broken pane on the fourteenth floor, the one Mrs Okafor keeps promising the council will fix. I was standing at the sink with the kettle going when it landed on the tea towel as if it had booked the spot. Orange as a bus shelter, black lines drawn round the edges with a fine pen. I did not move for ages. Then it lifted off, went up, and settled on the ceiling light, which is where your old model aeroplane used to hang before Dad took it down.

Mrs Okafor says monarchs make the trip from Canada to Mexico every year, thousands of them, and nobody can tell which ones have done it before. I said that sounded like a lot of effort for a bit of orange, and she laughed so hard she had to sit down on the balcony step.

What I keep thinking about is the shadow. When the butterfly lifted off the ceiling light it threw a dark, soft shape onto the magnolia wall, and the shadow stayed low while the wings rose and fell. It looked as though the butterfly was hovering a little above its own grey self. I thought of you, flying off to Toronto with two suitcases and a face like a shut door, and how I never once looked up to see what I was leaving.

I have left the window open. Come home for the summer, love, or send me a photo of the sky over wherever you are. Either will do.

Mum