The monarch’s wings pulse against my palm—its black veins like cracks in stained glass. Terminal, the doctor said yesterday. Six months, maybe less. Words that fell like stones into still water.

Mother collected butterflies. Not with nets and pins, but with her Nikon. “Never capture beauty,” she’d say. “Just witness it.”

I was seven when she photographed her last migration—thousands of monarchs in Mexico, transforming trees into trembling orange canopies. Later, in the hospice, she described how they navigated by the sun, how they’d travel two thousand miles only to die, their children continuing the journey they’d never complete.

Now I stand in my garden, this butterfly resting in my hand, a descendant perhaps of those my mother photographed. Its wings open and close like a beating heart. Six months. Enough time for one migration.

I’ve already sold my house, liquidated my retirement. The map on my kitchen table traces a route from Toronto to Michoacán—following the monarchs south.

The butterfly lifts from my palm, catches a current, and spirals upward. I watch until it’s just a speck against the endless blue. Tomorrow, I’ll begin following, from bearing witness, part of what is witnessed.