Monarch

The monarch flips slowly on the sidewalk with the limp, wheezy struggles of its wings. My three-year-old daughter asks, What's wrong with it? "It's dying." She asks why, and I tell her, "It's that time of year."
I'm surprised when she says, She needs a name. She's dying, Poppie.
"Give her a name," I say. She crunches a twig with her shoe and says, Sydney. "But that's your name." She nods.
We step over the spent butterfly. The leaves whisper under our steps, their final gasp before disappearing beneath the coming snow. Sydney's hand is in mine, and I do not slow my pace for her short stride.