My son believes his late aunt is a butterfly

Upon waking, my son asked me whether his aunt is just one butterfly or many: a butterfly came and sat on his hair at lunchtime yesterday, flew away and came back to his arm. I love how certainly he spoke of their visit, believing it to be his aunt. That he’s comforted by the notion and perhaps belief that this is what has happened. So, I tell him I believe she visits in many shapes and forms: the sole robin singing on our morning walks along the golf course or appearing with our other late aunt as crows last week on the logs at the marsh. And he moves on with his day. I wish to reassure and promise that when it is my visiting time, I too will be a butterfly, fluttering by him, landing on his dark coils – or perhaps I’ll be the robin. I might be the scent of his front door’s night-blooming jasmine or the first few bars of a song we sang together, coming on as he turns the ignition of his car. Upon waking, my son asked me whether his aunt is just one butterfly or many and moved on with his day.