Monarchs

A vibrant monarch butterfly gracefully lands on a striking red zinnia amidst a garden of colorful blooms.

Monarchs

by Lee Erickson

The summer I turned ten,

Aldo Jones—eleven,

but a grade behind—

hunted monarchs

as they landed

on his mother’s zinnias.

He stalked them

with single-minded focus,

his grip tightening

each time one fluttered free.

He chewed on dirt-covered rhubarb

while he worked.

His ma drifted to the back screen door,

orange robe slipping off one shoulder,

a juice glass of Crown Royal

in one hand,

the last bit of Pop-Tart

clinging to her lips.

She barely glanced our way.

The soaps played on inside,

stacked like cards.

Her husband was on the road again—

too many kids,

too many mouths,

and nowhere else to be.

Aldo never seemed to notice.

It was almost noon.

“What are you god damn kids doing out there?”

she yelled,

her words landing around me

like firecrackers,

startling me

out of my comfort.

Aldo didn’t flinch.

His eyes locked on the next one,

as if catching them

meant something more

than just a game.

Before he could answer,

she slung back the drink,

turned from the doorway,

and vanished

into the kitchen shadows.

He kept at it—

an old fishing net

from the garage rafters

his only tool.

A monarch slipped past.

He missed again.

His jaw clenched.

His breath, clipped.

“Fuuuuuck,”

he said, drawn-out.

I jumped.

I wasn’t allowed

to use language like that—

the last time I did,

I tasted soap for a week.

What was his goal?

To catch them?

Or control something?

The mason jar buzzed

with orange and brown,

a chaos of wings.

He struggled with the lid,

forcing it crooked

until finally

he dropped the jar

into the muddy yard.

He disappeared

into the garage.

I picked up the jar,

turned it in my hands.

Inside,

the monarchs

and one white moth—

a pale outcast—

fluttered in their captivity,

breathless.

He returned

with a rusty hammer,

raised it,

and slammed the jar

from my hands.

Glass popped

against the sidewalk—

late morning stillness shattered—

wings and shards scattering—

orange powder dusting the sidewalk,

thin legs twitching,

a slight heaving

in the wreckage.

My face flushed.

My body shivered,

as if a ghost had passed through me.

“They were all gonna die anyway,”

he muttered,

as if he had no choices.

I looked away. How could he do that?

He pounded the hammer into his fist,

scanning for something else to break.

His mother appeared again,

smiling,

her eyes distant—

as if the chaos

had long since stopped surprising her.

A gash opened

on my finger.

Blood fell onto the sidewalk,

onto the monarchs,

onto the one white moth

smashed among the ruin.

Tears welled—

but I knew, if I cried,

he’d mock me.

So I left,

pressing my fingers together

to stop the bleeding.

The day was heating up.

I walked the three blocks

back home,

where there would be

a grilled cheese,

a band-aid,

and a Mr. Freezee for a treat.

I stepped carefully

along the sidewalks,

a flutter in my stomach.

I avoided the cracks,

trying not to break

my mother’s back.

Disclaimer: The content shared here reflects my personal thoughts and professional insights, but it is not therapy. If you are struggling or in crisis, please call 911, go to your nearest emergency room, or dial 988 in the U.S. (Suicide & Crisis Lifeline). If outside the U.S., please seek local emergency resources.