Butterflies

I knew a girl once who had a clothesline that ran across her kitchen. When she would water her houseplants, she could never remember how much water each one needed to maintain a healthy green glow. She said, “I’d rather them leak than go thirsty.” She placed neatly folded paper towels beneath each young plant. An hour after each over-watering she would pick up the paper towels, whispering sweet words of encouragement to each plant. She would then stand on a box of cat litter, hanging each paper towel up to dry in the yellow, electric light I loved her once. The way those towels hung, limp, shifting in the breeze of drafty doors reminded me of butterflies.