May I present for your consideration a ficlet from Alan's POV.
Wingspan
I'm surprised to see the yellow and black caterpillar inching its way along my evening primrose plants. A white lined sphinx, I believe, though my wife was better at identification. Squatting down to its level, I tell it that it's a little late in the season to be trekking. It needs to get on with the business of burrowing into the soil to create an earthen cocoon. The ladies, I explain, will pass it by if it doesn't catch up.
I'm ignored, of course. It has its own timetable and is uninterested in me plotting its life schedule. I'm rather familiar with that view, as the current property owner feels the same.
The little fellow crawls on, unaffected by my near-parental reaction to its presence. But it doesn't stop me from worrying about its future. It's something at which I excel, especially in connection to my youngest boy. Well, to be honest, both sons have warranted a truckload of concern. But my Margaret and I always knew Donny's self-reliance would mirror my own. Charlie…well, he's another matter.
Like this caterpillar, Charlie moved at his own pace, whether or not anyone else appreciated it. Too fast through the halls of knowledge. Too slow through the bustle of society. Others would marvel at his march to that 'different drum,' but I feared he wasn't even hearing a beat.
I've seen plenty of academic types in my time; bookish, socially backward and unprepared for the world. And those were the ones I liked. That prevailing and admittedly unfair view created an initial desire to 'normalize' my son. But I'd married a smart woman. She'd quickly helped me see the beauty of this rare mind and count it as perfectly normal.
The caterpillar recaptures my attention, surefooted in its path. I know where this present journey will lead. A wondrous cocoon. My little caterpillar friend will eventually have to dig its way out from the soil to show the world its transformation. There lived a persistently nagging fear that Charlie would could easily wrap himself in a cocoon of numbers and never reemerge. Or make only a fractional entrance into the world. Was it possible to flourish with only a partial exit from the cocoon? Even recently, this concern lingered at the base of my skull, where the echoes of Margaret's assurances couldn't quite reach.
Until this morning, as I watched my grown son descend the stairs with a sleepy, smiling woman in tow. They looked every bit the satisfied couple Margaret and I had been. They looked perfectly normal. And that place where worry resided was vacated. I look forward to letting it get dusty with neglect.
The beginning of a drizzle compels me to stand. But not before I take a long final look at the caterpillar. One day, it will begin a new life as a moth. I can see it already; brown head and thorax with 6 white stripes and a brown abdomen with dark spots on each segment. And in my mind, I set a crop of curls on its head, though I doubt it would appreciate the hairdo. I tell it to enjoy the freedom of roaming both within the world and above it. Its wings, 5 or so inches across, will take it farther than I could ever go. So much like Charlie.
He has already fully emerged from his cocoon with a wingspan that rivals an eagle.