White Butterflies

“Mama, what's this?”

The white haired woman looked down at her child, taking her eyes off of the shining silver necklace she was making, and smiled. In his cupped hands rested a tiny butterfly, as white as the downy feathers that still covered his wings. She bent down, her own golden wings spreading out on the dusty wood floor behind her, and carefully examined the miniature insect that rested in her son's hand.

“What do you think it is, Micheal?”

He thought for a minute, his brow wrinkling as he stared down at the butterfly. Finally, he looked up.

“I think it's a grown up feather!”

She laughed a little. “A grown up feather?”

He nodded. “Yeah! All of my feathers are baby feathers, but when they fall off they grow up and then they look like this!” His blue eyes sparkled. “Right?”

“Not quite,” she said with a smile. “This is a butterfly.”

“A butter-fly?” He sounded just as confused as he looked. “It isn't butter!”

She laughed. “No, it's not.”

“And butter doesn't fly anyway!”

“Right again! But this is still a butterfly, even if the name doesn't make sense.” She shooed him out of the little wooden house. “Now go find a flower to put it on.”

He looked back at her. “Why?”

“Because butterfly food comes from flowers. That one's probably hungry.”

“Do flowers taste good?”

“Butterflies like them.”

“Hmm...” Micheal thought about this for a minute, then wandered off towards the meadow. His mother stood in the doorway, watching him, until he disappeared behind a tree, and she turned back to her work.

Five minutes later, Micheal was back.

“Mama,” he said with a grimace, “Flowers taste bad.”

A/N: Yep, another one not even remotely related to continuity. But, I felt like writing it, so here you go!