The Glass Butterfly

“I’m sorry for your loss,” yet another distant relative said as they placed their hand on my shoulder at the funeral.

That phrase meant very little to begin with. Now, after what felt like the thousandth time, it meant absolutely nothing.

“Carmen, honey,” my mother’s melodic voice interrupted my staring, “this is Oliver, he’s your uncle.”

I just stared at the man. I swear to God, if some other relative tells me that they are there for me, I’m going to snap. Nobody was there my entire life, so I didn’t want them to pretend to be now either.

My dad, William Henry Michaels, was in a car accident just a week ago. Now I was watching his casket being lowered into the ground. Dad died almost 30 miles out of town on Route 19, they said he was going about 80 miles an hour. Only, Dad had no reason to be out on Route 19… where was he going? Why so fast?

He had been sick for a long time, he had heart problems for a few years now. He should have been at home, resting. Instead, he was always working too hard to take care of me and mom.

After the funeral, we returned home where I secluded myself in my room to cry and be alone for a while. I heard a knock at the front door, and peeked out of my bedroom to see who it was. It was a policeman with a box. He handed the box to my mother, shook her hand and left.

When I came out, my mom handed me the box. “It’s some of your dad’s things they took out of the car. You can go through it and see if there’s anything you want to keep,” she said.

“And the rest?”

“I guess I’ll throw it out,” she replied, “it makes me sad to see his stuff.”

I ran into my room and slammed the door. How could she just get rid of Dad’s stuff? It was like she didn’t even want to remember him at all.

I started to look through the contents of the box; it was mostly filled with junk. There was some loose change, a picture of the three of us, some papers, his car keys, a pack of gum, and a small black notebook.

I took a piece of gum out of the pack and started to chew it, the mint flavor slid down my throat and almost made my eyes water. I picked up the notebook and opened to the first page.

Near the hill where the sun settles last

Lies a shimmering key made of glass

Poetry? I never knew my dad to write poetry before, but it was nice. I placed the notebook under my pillow and the gum in my pocket. The car keys I set on my nightstand with the picture. I gave the papers and change to my mom.

“Sweetie,” she said softly, “we’re going to live with your uncle Oliver for a while.”

“What?” I exploded.

“It’s just… I can’t afford the rent by myself.”

I ran back into my room. My whole world was crashing down around me, and I didn’t know how much more I could take. I didn’t want to move, and I certainly didn’t want my dad to die. What was he doing on Route 19 anyway?

I looked in the corner of my room where my guitar rested. I doubted that we would be able to afford the lessons anymore, it was something my dad worked hard to afford for me.

I reached under my pillow and retrieved the notebook and turned to the next page.

Underneath the tree with a beard like a man

Take the glass key as fast as you can

I froze. I remember hiking in the hills on Route 19 with my dad, and we laughed at an evergreen tree that looked like an old man with a beard. Was this poetry, or is something out there? Was my dad trying to tell me something?

I gripped the keys tightly.

I had to do something. I quietly locked my bedroom door and snuck out my window. Even though my dad’s car was wrecked, the keys to my mom’s car were on this keychain too. I hopped in the driver’s seat, started it, and took off.

I was terrified with every mile I drove, waiting for police and sheriffs to stop me, but nobody did. It took about 45 minutes to get to the hills on Route 19. There was still some markings on the highway from my dad’s accident, paint and tape that marked evidence. No debris though, it was all cleaned up.

I held the notebook across my chest and began to walk up the hills. It was about 7:00 and the sun was going down, it glowed with gold and purple hues that made it difficult to see.

“Go down already!” I shouted.

Almost as if it were obeying, the sun hid behind the hills and left me in a shadow. I shivered in the cold.

Suddenly, I remembered the first poem. I looked around frantically, one hill was still covered in golden light. I ran as fast as I could to the hill and looked around. I saw a glimmer of light and picked it up. It was a small glass butterfly, like a trinket that belonged on a necklace.

“What’s next?” I asked out loud and flipped to the next page in the notebook. “The tree with a beard.”

I could see the tree and began running toward it as fast as my legs would go. When I got to the tree I fell down onto my knees and began looking for where to put the butterfly, but I didn’t see anything.

“Come on!” I yelled, and hit the ground with my fist. There was a thump. I started to claw at the dirt and felt something hard and smooth. I dug it out.

I stared at the metal box with a butterfly-shaped keyhole. I placed the butterfly inside and turned, it opened with a snap. There was a note resting on top.

Page 47

I turned to page 47 in the notebook, and wept as I read the note from my dad.

My dearest Carmen,

I’m sorry to have left you so soon. I knew my time was short and I had to leave you with something.

Pay the rent, and finish your guitar lessons.

Love always,

Dad

Still in the metal box was a large stack of money. Thousands of dollars. Almost exactly enough to pay the rent on the house for a year, and finish my guitar lessons.

“That’s a great story, Carmen,” the TV host said, “would you say that it was your dad who inspired you to make your first CD?”

I smiled, “Absolutely.”

“Well, that’s an incredible story. Your success and beautiful music has inspired so many people. Thank you so much for coming on the show.”

The audience roared with applause as I stood and left. My hand gently caressed the glass butterfly necklace dangling under my collar. I took a deep breath and smiled.