Small things considered

I've been noticing the occasional Monarch butterfly in the most precarious places lately: trying to fly across a busy parkway, flitting above a football field, nearly missing an oncoming car.

The one I held in my hands earlier today I'd found lying still on my driveway. No car had been on that side of the driveway for a few days, so I wondered what had cut short its flight to, well, oblivion. After all, the monarchs I see around upstate New York likely migrated thousands of miles to lay their eggs here. After that, their lives are pretty much over. They've done their bit. Time for the next generation to take over.

My mother turned 107 last month, and I find that unimaginable, too. Her life is quite small. She is confined to her bed, where she can read or watch TV -- or sleep, which she does a lot these days. She raised five children, three of whom are still around. She lived through two world wars and countless smaller ones, relieved that none of the three sons who served in the military ever saw combat. She kept our home, cleaned up our messes and fed us well. She read to us, helped us with homework and made sure we said our prayers. You could say she's done her bit, too.

Like a new generation of monarchs, who manage to keep their species alive, I'd like to think my generation has done a good job of taking over from my mother's. I'd like to, but I don't. We made a lot of promises when we were young about making this world a better place. If we'd kept more of those promises, it might actually be a better place.

So like the monarch butterfly I held in my hands, then laid in one of my flowerbeds to fade into oblivion, maybe it's time for the next generation to take over. I mean, look at them: marching for the future of the planet, protesting the violence that continues to shatter the lives of the innocent, promising to do better than we did.

I hope they'll keep those promises.