It was something you don’t see. Not during winter in the city. Phil and I paused for a moment on the icy sidewalk. A small yellow butterfly fluttered around a trashcan.

Phil stared at the yellow sulphur butterfly. He seemed mesmerized.

How, I wondered, did this fragile thing survive the deadly cold?

I thought of an artist friend I knew. She once told me yellow butterflies are called sulphurs for a reason. They’re spirits who’ve escaped from the fire and brimstone of hell. The spirits escape damnation through a sly transformation–by disguising themselves as splashes of burning sulphur. Fleeing hell, they rise up, up, back into the living world as bright, yellow butterflies.

That’s what my crazy artist friend had said.

Pointing at the butterfly, I interrupted Phil’s reverie. I recounted her theory.

“Sure, nice story, but even butterflies eventually become ash. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

“You miss the point. Escaping the fire is what matters.”