I lay down on the grass in the nearby park as I stared at the word I had written on top of the page in my English exercise book: “Happiness”. I was working on a creative-writing assignment that my English teacher had given me. As I poised my pen, ready to write a three-page essay, I felt disturbed because I could not think of anything to write. I felt like I had no happiness or excitement in my life. Every day was a ritual, a long, boring ritual.

I pulled back my hair into a frizzy ponytail. Jealousy, ah, I knew - perhaps too well. I could have written chapters on that topic; about how my sisters are so perfect, and got almost everything they wanted, including perfect grades. I could have written about how my parents do not trust me enough to give me the freedom and independence my friends have.

I could have also written about hatred or pain. I would have written about those snobby, thin girls who mock people and parade around in designer short skirts as if they were models on a fashion catwalk. The pain isn’t about physical pain. It is about the pain that you feel when your best friend insults you or leaves you on your own when you really need her. It’s the kind of pain where you feel like killing everyone around you because they are not the one who’s suffering from a broken heart.

I was supposed to write an essay about happiness. How could I, among all people, write an essay about happiness?, I thought. I walked towards the pond in the park and sat down on a rock. I looked at my reflection as my thoughts rambled, how am I going to get a good grade when I can’t even think of a sentence for my essay? I would bring disgrace to my family, spoiling all the perfect records my sisters have done. I observed the beautiful ‘koi’ in the pond, wishing I was the innocent fish, without a single worry of their own.

“Abbey? May I talk to you for a while?” asked a small voice.

I turned around and saw my little five-year-old neighbour, Ruth, standing next to me. She looked so cute in her ‘Guess’ dress and her brown ringlets cascading down her shoulders. She wore a worried look on her angelic face.

“Sure, Ruthie, what’s the problem?” I replied.

“Well,” she paced back and forth. “Mum told me that butterflies are very fragile creatures. She told me that they have many tiny little feathers on their wings and if I touch them, those feathers will come off and they would be in great pain.” She paused, with a little frown on her face, concentrating really hard.
“Yes, that is true,” I agreed with her.

She leaned towards me as if she was going to share a deep, dark secret she had. “Before Mum told me all this,” she whispered, “I caught a few butterflies. I was so happy. They were really pretty; they had my favourite colour, red.”

I nodded and looked at her very red dress and shoes.

“I didn’t tell her that I caught them. I was afraid that she would get angry at me for hurting the butterflies,” she confessed.

“I think it would be best to release the butterflies. If you were a butterfly, I don’t think you’d want to live in a glass jar,” I told her gently, “Where are they?”

“Oh! They are in my room. I’ll be back in a minute!” she said. When she came back, she was cradling a fairly large jar with a lid. She looked a little sad, yet glad and relieved.

“Butterflies make me really happy,” she said, looking at me with her huge, hazel eyes, while opening the lid.

I thought about that for a while. Then, I realized that people normally do not appreciate the simple joys of life, like seeing a flower bloom or eating your favourite tuna sandwich. Happiness was not buying that new “DKNY” shirt; it was like a butterfly. Something simple and so natural it was not often thought about, yet that was what made it so special and beautiful. I suddenly knew what to write for my essay.

I looked at the butterflies emerging out of the jar one by one, into the sky, and then there were none.