Last night a butterfly was trapped in our laundry room.

Mabel was asleep after reading “Maybelle The Cable Car,” a book about gentrification in 1940s San Francisco. Ted was at the hospital with a feeding tube. His mother was likely sitting next to him in the terrible vinyl visitor’s chair. I was having a quiet evening at home and looking forward to an early bedtime.

I lugged a basket of dirty clothes downstairs and turned on the overhead light. Suddenly I was divebombed by a Monarch butterfly. It was coming at my head, fwap-fwap-fwapping. I was surprised by its heft and power. I didn’t feel gossamer wings — I felt thorax assaulting my neck. It was a scared butterfly, trapped in a tiny room, and it was freaking me out.

The butterfly had problems; I had a butterfly problem.

I tried to shoo the butterfly out the back door. After several minutes it turned and headed for the garage door, so I opened that too. It was following me and at the same time flying into me and smacking into me.

“Girl, I know how you feel!” I finally shouted.

I wasn’t sure the butterfly made it out but I had to close doors and go to bed. “Take care of yourself,” I told the darkness. Take care of yourself is what everyone says to me, so we’re taking care.

Me and the butterfly. We’re trapped. Ted has cancer and the butterfly is stuck downstairs. It’s the most literal metaphor ever of all time. Here we are, con nuestra mariposa.