Cabbage White

by Janelle Greco

When I was little I killed something joyful. It happened near the forsythia bush where we played baseball, where I once whacked my cousin in the mouth with a line drive. That wasn’t on purpose, but this was. 

There was one of those white butterflies darting all over with its wings vibrating back and forth at the speed of a nervous breakdown. They’re called cabbage whites. The Latin name is Pieris rapae, and its conservation status is listed as “of least concern.” In any case, it was tapping me like a toddler would if they wanted something—over and over, unrelenting. 

I caught it. I cupped it in my hands as if it were an egg or a small flower and peeked through my fingers just to be sure. It felt like hundreds of eyelashes fanning my palms. It was fragile like some glass figurine my grandma keeps in a locked curio. It was beautiful and full of frenetic joy, and because it was beautiful, I wanted to understand how it worked. What is needed to flap a wing?

I started with its white, papery wings. They felt like silk, like they had gone untouched until now. The abdomen was long, with the wings so thin they seemed barely attached. I wondered how something so delicate ever survives. And in that wondering I pulled it apart. I ripped one, and it looked like a piece of a peony petal. It did what I expected, convulsing and frenetic. And then I couldn’t stop myself. I ripped both wings off raggedly and let pieces float down to the grass. There were no clean incisions. The fluttering stopped. I poked at the brown-yellow abdomen and discovered that its body was the consistency of earwax. When I was done I dropped its remains on the ground. I didn’t know whether or not you give things like that a proper burial. I still don’t know. 

My mom called me in for lunch, and I ran with my hands covered in the residue of its wings. 

“I killed something,” I told her.

“What was it?” she asked.

“A butterfly.”

She said nothing. Her frosted blonde hair bobbed as she scrubbed the dishes. The suds were white and foamy like the wings.

“Am I bad?” I asked.

“What? No, of course not,” she said. And then she whirled around and gave me a kiss on the top of my head. Some of the dishwater dripped on my arm and it felt like rain.

The way I remember it the sky was greay. Some thunder might have clapped. Or maybe that’'s the feeling you get when you’'re afraid you’'ve cursed yourself. When I’'ve done something I don’'t know how to apologize for, I think of it. The cabbage white. My palm itches with the flitting of its wings.

Published April 6th, 2025