I Just Saw a Butterfly
Carly Marie Knudson 2015-07-12
It's been two nights since she left us. In her daughters arms, with her son on Skype, having been soothed to sleep by the words of her first born grandson. The first born is special, my own grandmother always says. And it was for her too. She wasn't scared, which relieves me. For her. I am, for me. A guide through some of life's toughest storms. A beacon through infinite darkness. People speak of pure love, fresh like the first fall morning. Warm and bright was hers, too.
I just saw a butterfly.
She came to my stepmom the next morning, Friday. On a bumper sticker. Im not sure about her nephew, my daddy. I haven't asked. We haven't spoken since I got the call. I think It hurts too much for both of us. A bond we share in losing her. For she to him was a pillar of strength and clarity through our families darkest secrets, his own tough storms. Because that was her way. The quiet way. The unity way. Well, not always quiet. But always with love. Four generations raised in one home over the years. It was beautiful and ours, now it is beautiful and someone else's. They love it too. I knocked on the door and asked.
She's been sick for a while. We thought she beat it, but I think we always knew it would be back. This kind always comes back, said the doctors. Refusing to be swept quickly by the current, she floated along the delta as long as daylight allowed. Closing circles. Catching up with family and friends. Sharing memories and wishes. I saw her two weeks ago. The first visit in ages. Pregnant with cancer, the body wasn't hers, but not changed was her love. As rich as ever. I crawled into bed alongside her as she read us the first chapter of her next book. Her first work of fiction. It was lovely. Though the completed book about her aunt will be cherished forever.
I just saw a butterfly.
She had said to me honey, "Honey" — it's always been honey — "follow your bliss." Her regrets, quiet and close, when shared brought me clarity. And so I am. Following my bliss. She'll haunt me if I don't. She told me when we hugged goodbye.
I just saw a butterfly.
At least I think I did. I saw a butterfly in the subway station. The G. At Myrtle-Willoughby. Maybe I'm crazy. But there it was, fluttering around over there, across the tracks. It moved like one, drunk how they look. It flew up to a pillar, opened and closed its wings one time, then went still. It was still so long I was sure I was crazy. That I want so bad to have her back, I had imagined it. Created its beauty. Then, as the train approached, it fluttered into the tunnel. Am I crazy? I know I am but I'm sure I'm not.
She often referred to the saying what the caterpillar calls the end, the master calls a butterfly. My most treasured note from her includes those words. She spoke them that Saturday two weeks ago. She wasn't scared.
And I just saw a butterfly.
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