Sylph

She sat on the porch, on her throne of weather beaten wood and peeling paint. The boy ran past her again, feet pounding hard on the sun dried concrete below and finding all the hidden cracks and breaks beneath. Furiously he ran, bellowing a war cry of glee as he ran forth, fine butterfly net held aloft.

She wondered what he was chasing. Butterflies had already died off in the fallout winter.

The boy ran past her again, his oversized shirt flapping in the wind and butterfly net trailing behind him. His laces are untied, skittering on the pavement in his wake. You can see it coming. It’s inevitable, a prescience built upon instincts. A kid running around with his laces undone will fall.

The boy trips. He’s halfway to the ground and she gasps. He meets the concrete slab in a rough kiss. Her lips curve into a smile and she watches him, waiting for his six year old wail to fill the air. To her surprise, the only thing he does is pick himself up solemnly.

Pursing her lips, she yells at him from the porch, “You’re crazy you know. There aren’t any more butterflies around here.”

The boy bent over and picked up his net. He shouts back, “I’m not catching butterflies, I’m catching sylphs. I’ve already got a gnome, a salamander an’ a undine”

“You’re even crazier then”. She punctuates her point by tapping on her temple.

“Someone’s gotta restore the elements”, he says in a whisper. Gazing into the sky, he only sees the smoke black remnants of the clouds.