This time started as it always does: darkness. Every new life begins in darkness. Eyes closed or shielded from the light by warm eggs. For a couple of seconds, everything is peaceful. But then, as it always does, the light penetrates the stillness, and the new life is reminded that it is, in fact, alive, and the living have things to do.
   This time, I recognize my darkness. I have lived this life many times before. Instinct took over. I started to methodically chew away at the egg surrounding me, only stopping when there was a large enough hole for me to crawl through. Once outside, I eat the remaining shell and move on to eating the leaves that are just above my head, swaying in the breeze. This stage passes in a blur. My emotions are rote, more habitual than conscious. Eat, molt, rest, repeat. Over and over for days and days. Braving the overzealous wind I eat and grow without thinking and without feeling. I am compelled by some force within me. I can not stop.
   It is always like this. You learn quickly that the beginning is not a time to relax. Only once I am safe inside my chrysalis can I stop for a moment. I think that many would assume the complete transformation of my body into what is essentially a new species would take more energy than it does. In reality, all I have to do is sit there and let it happen. That's how most transformations are. Even the monumental differences are imperceptible until they are too late to stop. So I sit and I think about all the lives I have lived. Every book read, every sunny nap, every hibernation. Each experience is so incredibly different with only one thing connecting them. Her.

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    This life is a hard one. North America to Mexico is a difficult trip for any animal. But I have to do it. I know the path like I know my own mind. I know her like I know my own mind. Humans have this word: “love,” but that's not how I feel about her. My feelings are something different. Something deeper. There is no word to describe it. Not in any language. It is this sort of soaring
feeling, the knowledge that you are alive and that you love it.
   Time passes fast when thinking of her. I can feel my paper-thin wings pressing against the protective walls of my chrysalis. It feels a bit like being born again. I struggle free and warm my
wings in the sun. That first stretch in the crisp afternoon air is almost enough to make the journey ahead of me worth it.
   Most monarchs don’t make it to Mexico. Around one in four generations is born in time to make it away from the bitter northern winters. This generation, the “last” generation, lives for much longer than the others to complete the pilgrimage. In as many lives as I have been a monarch, I have only made the journey to Mexico in a few.

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    This time is different. I can feel somewhere down inside me, somewhere down between my thorax and my abdomen, that this trip is different. Lakes and mountains pass me by as I reminisce on my other lives. Images of bears and caves and zebras on a savannah run through my mind, each old life coming back to me as fresh in my memory as the last breath I took. Each life was different. The obvious differences you got used to quickly enough. After a while, you learn to walk on four legs or to breathe through gills. There are less obvious differences, though. Perceptive differences like color receptors or heightened senses. Those are more difficult to get used to. Luckily, the survival instinct is universal and you figure it out eventually.
   But this is a different I can’t quite place. The way to Mexico is less populated thannormal. Every move I make feels so final, like it's the last one I’ll ever make, in this life or any other. I have to make it to Mexico. I have to see her.

   I find her in every life. We don’t seek each other out. Sometimes, we don’t even recognize each other until it is too late. But every time, without fail, she is there. We are intertwined, intrinsically connected, impossible to separate. I am not alive without her, or at least, life is not life without her.
   The world is starting to get warmer around me. The bushes are fuller and the flowers more vibrant with each beat of my wings. But then, slowly, the world flattens and dust fills the air. Mexico is not far. Each time I rest it gets harder to start again. The warm, golden light of Mexico and the anticipation of rest is what keeps me going. And, of course, the thought of her. How would she appear this time? As a soft, cool leaf for me to rest on? As another monarch
making the grueling journey south? Maybe now she is a spider, spinning her web and waiting for me to fall into her trap. There are worse ways to go.

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    After months, I have finally arrived in Mexico. I start to fly faster toward the forests and can almost feel the cool shade falling across my wings as my favorite hibernation spot fades into view. At the base of a mountain, there is a small clearing with a creek running through it. On the edge of the clearing, a little ways away from the water, there is a tree that is slightly shorter than all the others. This tree is where I have hibernated every time I have lived as a monarch. The lesser height provides seclusion, a peaceful place to relax.
   Many of the other butterflies are already there. The way they arrange themselves on the branches makes them look like large orange flowers hanging down from the trees. Other newcomers flutter around through the air, looking for a spot, while the southern sun shines tangerine through their wings. I find a spot on my tree on a high branch, trying to leave room for her, but it could be days before she arrives. A lot can change in a few days.
   Time starts to blur now. Trees covered in orange butterflies stretch out as far as I can see. The clearing alone has remained untouched by the migration. I stare out at it as days turn into nights and the nights bleed into days. The stars are brighter here and the water in the creek is clear and sparkles in the moonlight. I am not sure how long it has been since I have arrived but I am getting worried. The stream of newcomers has been dropping steadily and the temperature has been dropping even here in our secluded forest.
   The pull of sleep is getting harder to fight. My metabolism is slowing down. If she doesn't show up soon, I might never find her. I have to trust her. She's been late before, but never this late. If she doesn't come soon, I will start hibernation and there's no guarantee that anyone survives to spring.
   I am cold. So cold. The sky is cloudy and everyone around me is still. The world is quiet. I almost give in to the blackness, but then, there she is, shimmering in my vision like a mirage. The sun peeks through the clouds and for a split second, she looks as if she is made of fire. It is just the same as all of our other lives. We just know. She lands next to me and we settle in for the winter. And as I drift off to sleep, I am happy to be alive.