LJ Idol: Week 5: Pupa
Steven is hovered over me, blue eyes glistening in the clear afternoon sunlight. He holds up a large green caterpillar with vibrant yellow spots. "I think I'll call him Henry."
I wrench my face into a smile, hoping that my disgust doesn't show through. "He's lovely."
"Well. Not really," he acknowledges. "But I hear that the uglier caterpillars turn into the most beautiful butterflies. And if you find a beautiful caterpillar, it will most likely turn into a moth."
"I'll keep that in mind," I say, digging through the soil at the base of a poplar tree.
The Adult Preschool class has been tasked with finding caterpillars for our butterfly assignment. The class took off when adult colouring books became a craze. Some people thought that perhaps, with so much cynicism and world weariness abound, what adults really need is a simpler way of functioning. The program is mostly populated by individuals on E.I, stay at home parents, and myself. I'm an undercover researcher uncovering information on my thesis - "Recent Trends in Self-Help: A Retreat to Childhood".
We're to put the caterpillars all into one tank where they will, hypothetically, create cocoons and turn into butterflies. We've already completed drawings in crayon of what we want our butterflies (or moths) to look like.
I finally discover a small brown caterpillar crawling up the weathered trunk of the tree. "Do you think this one will do?"
Steven scratches his receding hairline. "I don't know. That seems more likely to be a worm."
I sigh, scraping the worm off of the bark and placing it inside of my glass mason jar regardless. "Maybe. I guess we'll have to find out."
"What if it's a parasite bug?" Steven asks. "What if it eats all the caterpillars?" The concern in his eyes is heartening.
"I hope not." I say. "Maybe he can have his own separate tank, just in case."
Steven sighs, relieved. "That might be a good idea. Because when my caterpillar turns into a butterfly, I want to pin him to a styrofoam board. You know, take it home to show to the family. The kids would like that, I bet."
"Not alive, you don't mean," I say.
"Well that's the only way to do it," he informs me. "That's the way that scientists or whats-it do it."
"Is it? I don't know if that's the purpose of the assignment.."
"I've already spoken to Ms. Jones about it," he says, eyeing the poor unknowing caterpillar - Henry - inside of his own mason jar. "A lot of the other students want me to help them do it with theirs too. It'll be tricky, but I have a way with this kind of thing. Do you want me to help you pin yours once it hatches?"
"I... no. That's quite alright."
"What are you going to do with it then?"
"Set it free," I say.
"That seems a bit of a waste for all that hard work. You gotta have something to show for it."
"Do you?"
Steven nods, knowingly. The crows feet at the edges of his eyes giving the impression of hard won wisdom.
I wrench my face into a smile, hoping that my disgust doesn't show through. "He's lovely."
"Well. Not really," he acknowledges. "But I hear that the uglier caterpillars turn into the most beautiful butterflies. And if you find a beautiful caterpillar, it will most likely turn into a moth."
"I'll keep that in mind," I say, digging through the soil at the base of a poplar tree.
The Adult Preschool class has been tasked with finding caterpillars for our butterfly assignment. The class took off when adult colouring books became a craze. Some people thought that perhaps, with so much cynicism and world weariness abound, what adults really need is a simpler way of functioning. The program is mostly populated by individuals on E.I, stay at home parents, and myself. I'm an undercover researcher uncovering information on my thesis - "Recent Trends in Self-Help: A Retreat to Childhood".
We're to put the caterpillars all into one tank where they will, hypothetically, create cocoons and turn into butterflies. We've already completed drawings in crayon of what we want our butterflies (or moths) to look like.
I finally discover a small brown caterpillar crawling up the weathered trunk of the tree. "Do you think this one will do?"
Steven scratches his receding hairline. "I don't know. That seems more likely to be a worm."
I sigh, scraping the worm off of the bark and placing it inside of my glass mason jar regardless. "Maybe. I guess we'll have to find out."
"What if it's a parasite bug?" Steven asks. "What if it eats all the caterpillars?" The concern in his eyes is heartening.
"I hope not." I say. "Maybe he can have his own separate tank, just in case."
Steven sighs, relieved. "That might be a good idea. Because when my caterpillar turns into a butterfly, I want to pin him to a styrofoam board. You know, take it home to show to the family. The kids would like that, I bet."
"Not alive, you don't mean," I say.
"Well that's the only way to do it," he informs me. "That's the way that scientists or whats-it do it."
"Is it? I don't know if that's the purpose of the assignment.."
"I've already spoken to Ms. Jones about it," he says, eyeing the poor unknowing caterpillar - Henry - inside of his own mason jar. "A lot of the other students want me to help them do it with theirs too. It'll be tricky, but I have a way with this kind of thing. Do you want me to help you pin yours once it hatches?"
"I... no. That's quite alright."
"What are you going to do with it then?"
"Set it free," I say.
"That seems a bit of a waste for all that hard work. You gotta have something to show for it."
"Do you?"
Steven nods, knowingly. The crows feet at the edges of his eyes giving the impression of hard won wisdom.