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.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

It starts with a screaming cat

The vet tells me it's dementia. She doesn't know where she is, so she screams. Don't I get it, cat. Some days I wake up and the Sun hits just right and my limbs are stretched out and I swear the cat is me. And then the cat screams. So I go on walks. I don't walk far but I walk deeply. I haven't measured, but if I had to guess I'd say our meeting place is 3,128 steps from my house. Where I found T all those months ago. Back when it was cold. Now it borders Grassy Pond and sits on a bed of moss. Now I go barefoot because feeling the green sponge give under my feet is my form of therapy. Other than T that is. Talk about a relationship that's not easy to put into words. Talk about untrodden territory. There's nothing I can't say or do in T’s presence. T always stands in the same spot. I'm always the last one to show up and the first one to leave. I have a screaming cat to attend to after all. Conversation is scarce, but that's the nature of our r
Read more

An endorsement for Venus

It was sunny and Mattie lay on her towel - her knees making a pyramid as her feet dug into the sand. The further she dug, the cooler the sand felt between her toes. She was wearing a bikini and sunglasses, but staying well under the sun umbrella. The shade was her best friend. With her hands behind her neck, she gaped at the clear blue sky hanging over her. Her mother was enjoying a mid-August read beside her. Mattie peeked at her occasionally  to try and catch her dozing off and poke fun at her if she did. It was a running joke between the two that the mother would never admit to falling asleep in a public space. Out of the blue, Mattie found herself eavesdropping on the conversation taking place the next parasol over. She couldn't really make out the features of whom she figured were a late-middle-aged husband and wife, maybe taking some time away from the grandchildren. The man wore trunks and a cap to cover his scalp. The woman sat to his left, making it hard for Mattie to get
Read more

Pond boys

  I juggle a steaming cup of English Breakfast and a bowl of Quaker Steel Cut Oats in one hand, and slide the screen door open with the other. The eyes squint. The brow frowns. The day’s colors begin to settle on my skin. Some purple establishes itself on the Salvia. The Zinnias pinken and the Cardinals redden. Around here, things know how to fall into place. At night, a rafter of turkeys strut, gobble, and hoist their way up to my grandfather’s pine trees. Now, I drag my slippers across the deck and place my breakfast on the railing, between Petunia and Black-eyed Susan. The chair is never quite where I want it to be, so I tug it lightly, pull it slightly. Never to my own satisfaction. I sit myself down and it hits me that it rained last night, as I begin to feel the cool water from the pillow seeping through my pajama pants. Ah well. I bring the cup to my lips and test the waters. Too hot. I take a spoonful of soggy oats instead, letting the spice of the cinnamon marry the sweetness
Read more