Butterfly With A Broken Wing

My sister Daphne and I were swinging in the backyard when we got the idea to fly like butterflies.

- Susan Yoder Ackerman

The air felt so good rushing past that it seemed like it ought to hold us up when we jumped off and away from the swings.

I landed on my side with my arm twisted under me. “Oops!” I said. And then, “Ouch!”

Daphne was jumping up and laughing, and I tried to do the same. But my arm felt strange. It ached deep inside. I didn’t want to move it.

Daphne stopped laughing when she saw how I was holding my arm. “Oh, Ella, maybe it’s broken!” she said. “Let’s find Mom.”

In the kitchen, Daphne explained about the butterfly accident, and Mom took me on her lap. “Daphne, get me some ice cubes,” she said, with a worried look. “The arm’s a little red, and we don’t want it to swell up.”

Mom wrapped the ice in a cloth, and Daphne held the cool package against my arm where I rested it on the kitchen table. Mom called Dad and then my doctor.

I heard her say, “I’ve got ice on it. I’ll try the sling too, and then I’ll drive her to the orthopedist.”

“What’s an orthopedist?” I asked.

" A bone doctor,” Mom answered, as she rolled up a magazine and gently tied it to my arm. “There, that will keep your arm from moving.” Then she looped a towel under my arm and knotted it over my shoulder. My arm felt better resting across my tummy in the sling she had made.