The Young and the Old

The Young and the Old

Three and a half year old Alice pointed to a picture in her book, a butterfly landing on a flower. “What is the butterfly doing?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, trying to say something she would understand, “butterflies eat juice from flowers, she’s probably looking for her supper.” Then I read the words on the page.

“The butterfly lands gently on the flower.”

“But you said she’s looking for food.”

“Yes, I was just reading the words.” I said.

“Why don’t the words say what you said?” she asked.

“Well,” I began, once again stumped by the three year old. “Everybody looks at a picture and thinks, ‘What does this mean?’ and they have their own thoughts about what they see. I thought about the butterfly wanting her supper. The lady who wrote the words thought about the butterfly landing on the flower after flying over. You probably thought something else.”

“Oh,” she said.

On a whim, with no expectations, I asked, “What did you think when you looked at the picture?”

Alice looked up at me as if I were trying to trick her. Then she smiled, “Her name is Azra.”

Surprised and delighted by that answer I asked, “What made you think that?”

To which she replied, with a completely straight face, “I knew a butterfly named Azra once,” and she turned the page. “What does this page say?” she asked, the last page forgotten.

I sat looking at her, knowing I would get nowhere with questions. Was that something from another book? From preschool? From a former life? Was it something remembered, or something she was supposed to forget? Or was just her silly old grandmother, imagining too much again.

One day we’ll all find out, and yet, it will always stay a secret still.