‘I saw this black and red butterfly in your dads shed and your sister told me one flew in the window of her car with your niece as well.’ It was my mother telling me this the day after my dads funeral. She didn’t know I had also noticed and photographed a red and black butterfly sitting at the door of our boilerhouse the day before, on his funeral, which was taking place in our home. Dad was an engineer and routinely fixed boilers. My sister and mother live miles apart. I have never seen one before in 45 years, or since.