A butterfly, a glorious, wide-winged, yellow butterfly, landed quietly, quietly and very lightly, on Debra’s shoulder to watch her play piano. Debra did not notice it, but kept on playing her favorite Chopin Nocturne. The music was so beautiful, and Debra’s playing so lovely, that the butterfly sighed and closed its eyes. it felt no more need to see Debra’s gracious hands and fingers dance up and down the keyboard in little pirouettes and twirls, though that was a wonder in itself. Then, as the butterfly almost swooned away in sheer delight, another butterfly landed, oh, so softly, on Debra’s other shoulder. This one was small, delicate, and white, white as a snowflake, and not much bigger.

When Debra paused in her playing, a tiny tear of love escaping from the corner of one eye, the butterflies stirred, began to flutter their wings, fanning the air, the little one going very fast to keep up with the big one. Then, suddenly, up they went, holding on to the soft pink cotton cloth on Debra’s shoulders, and they lifted her right up through the ceiling and the roof, up and up and up and into the sky, until they set her down oh, so gently, on top of a smooth wide cloud, on which there stood a pure white piano made out of snowflakes. And there, un-astonished, completely and happily at home, Debra played the Snowflake Etude, which Chopin had forgot to write.

Softly, sweetly, around the world, the delicate, pure notes flew, and people looked amazed, reached, caught them, and wondered why they cried, some in sadness, some in joy, all deeply touched by the heart of Chopin.

When Debra woke up the next morning she gasped in astonishment at her beautiful dream. And there, on her pillow, lay a pure little something, just now melting away. Debra bent over and kissed the small wet spot, which sent happiness through her lips and into her mind and life forever.

Outside her window two butterflies, a big yellow one and a small white one, fluttered about the sunlit swaying flowers as if in a dream.