You're the fallen tree no one hears

The end of the world is in a butterfly. One evening you’re scoping out the neighborhood and you happen to take a step back to admire Mrs. O’s garden, when you notice a small little white butterfly pop up from the corner of your eye. The scene has fallen perfectly into place. And then you think back on when the last time you saw a butterfly was, and it dawns on you that this is the first time all summer. Mind you, it’s almost September. So you rack your brain trying to summon a memory of a butterfly from the past four months. Not a single one. It can’t be. Surely you must be wrong. Nothing. Now your gut churns at the thought of what this could mean. You know insects are the central nervous system of this planet. The last piece that completes the puzzle. Without them there is no you. And you know this isn’t about you. But without you, there is no one else left in this universe to admire the wonder of such beings as butterflies. And don’t butterflies exist to be admired.
It doesn’t take much to scare you out of your wits these days. Just yesterday there was a loud rumbling noise that you couldn’t seem to get away from. The further you walked, the closer it seemed to lurk. So you considered the options. Plane. Truck. Thunder. Motorcycle. Generator. The apocalypse. After all, you’re convinced Hollywood got it all wrong. It won’t all end with a big bang. Earth will simply have an aneurysm and that’ll be that. A minor headache. A ringing in her ears. And then, nothing. Just because something beautiful comes to an end does not mean its end will be beautiful. The best endings are the ones that don’t provide closure. Because closure is comfortable, and comfort exists 4 feet underground, or scattered over sea foam. You remember your friend who told you she always starts a book from the last chapter. “If the end doesn’t intrigue me, the lead-up to it will be a waste of time”. It’s the age-old question: to know when, or how.
By the time you return your gaze to the white speck in the corner of your eye, you find yourself admiring a hydrangea instead. The butterfly dissipated back into your butterfly-less world. Yet nothing seems out of the ordinary on this street where Mrs. O pulls weeds under the scorching Sun, and little Owen pitter-patters his way to the big doggie, and Ms. Prudie keeps one eye on the grill, the other fixated on the sizzling neighborhood. Where Dahlia from 24C finds a need to bring her phone calls to the front porch steps. “The one who was married to Sal. You know, the one who forgot their son in the car in 90 degree weather and died … Well, they got a divorce of course … Yes … Oh, I know. I saw him months ago and he had gained so much weight … It’s a shame, really. Such a beautiful family.” She twirls the strings of hair that escape her bun, her feet fidgeting as she tries to pluck the grass with her toes. She, too, missed the butterfly. And now the flying splash of color is gone. And you know how hard it is to find a missing puzzle piece.

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