Butterflies in the Winter

Grace:

"They say grief never goes away, it only changes."

I can't tell you how many times I've heard that line. Even as I repeat it back to myself in times of spiraling affliction, it does nothing to calm the discourse. It only halts the inevitable chain of thought —a cycle that returns when I stub my consciousness against a distant memory. Even as the doctor desperately tries to help me navigate my loss, that proverbial saying is pointless, because nothing has changed.

I lose myself in the repetition. I begin to trace an imaginary line between all the placards and framed accolades behind my inquiring therapist. Like an imaginary maze, I kept getting snagged on the corner of her master's degree, or stonewalled by a gentle watercolor painting of a solitary canoe pontooned on a beach.

The doctor clearly sees me playing games with my eyes, she breaks the silence. "What does that mean to you? It only changes?" Sectioning the last part of that saying for more poignancy. Her demeanor shifts; she leans forward in her chair, her elbows resting on her knees. Legs crossed, she shakes her suspended foot at mach speed, her tan flats vibrating like a clocked-out metronome. I answer hastily to quell her eagerness. "I suppose it means, how you feel about the matter changes, maybe those memories that made you weep, make you laugh instead. Like the intense hurt turns into subtle fondness, something like that?" "Right, exactly," I can tell she still wasn't pleased. "And what would you say has changed for you?" Nothing, I wanted to say, but I knew that would invoke a whole new laundry list of questions, and our time was almost up. Quite frankly, I was over it. "I guess time has changed, maybe smoothed some of the sharper edges." "Right, Grace, so I think the problem here is that you need to change." Her brutal honesty struck me. "It's almost been a year, and you're living in a house you can no longer afford. You can't hold this up much longer; the downside will be much worse than the hard work you have to put in to avoid it." She knew the answer all along; that was the therapist's job. She already had the remedy; she just needed me to get there myself, but I'm getting the impression she's tired of dragging me along. "Why not give away your mom's pieces? I'm sure the art institute would love to have them." Yeah, but they wouldn't be with me anymore. I held my tongue. I just wanted to leave. Saved by the bell, the gentle timer chimed, signaling our session was at an end. Dr. Monroe always hit me with a few final thoughts as I gathered my things. "I think both me and your mother want to see you thrive, it's time for the next chapter." A tender smile as she said it. "And remember, healing is not about forgetting but remembering with less pain.” Another saying that fell on deaf ears.

Jonathan:

Jonathan always made it a point to get his daily walks in, an inevitable idiosyncrasy that was instilled in him by his parents. Go outside and get your body moving. Then you can rot your brain with TV. At the time, he hated it. Most days, he'd like to spend inside watching the full slate of Saturday morning cartoons or diving into some playtime on his Nintendo. He didn't see it at the time, but he was glad for the inflexible ideology; as an adult, the benefit of just getting outdoors, even to walk, could change the whole course of your day, this is why he decided to forgo his car and take the long trek to see his friend at the coffee shop.

He rounded the corner just a street away from Main Ave. He'd always stopped and admired the old manor that hulked over the other smaller houses of the cookie-cutter neighborhood. Aside from its size and grandiose Gothic features, the house was littered with quirky and eccentric art installations, including giant metal sunflowers and the most unique stained glass windows you'd find in a fantasy novel. Jonathan and his late wife would love to stop and marvel at its intricacies each time they passed. This time, Jonathan only spared a passing glance. The air was getting nippy, and the wind was just cold enough to frost his skin; he thought it best to keep moving.

Derrick was always late, so he had time to kill. He decided to make a pit stop at Dusty Pages. Even though he was way over his book-buying budget, he still loved to browse the new releases. It didn't take long before he was swept away in the contagious bookstore atmosphere. Skimming synopses and flipping through the pages of this week's top thriller. A loud thwack noise jarred him from his stupor. A closet door slammed shut, and a single book slipped from the shelf and fell to the floor. Jonathan did a double-take, seeing if anyone else had noticed the peculiar instances. The store was barren. He shuffled over to the paperback; the baseless occurrence warranted a peek. Flipping over to the cover, he noticed the picture first, a stark baby blue background with a front-facing plate of angel hair pasta neatly arranged as best as spaghetti could be, with a hefty topping of chunky red sauce. Way too vibrant to be real. The title in golden font read- 12 BEST PASTA DISHES YOU CAN MAKE AT HOME.

Immediately, he was transported to a not-so-distant time where he and Tessa were pressing fresh dough through a roller, trying to get the perfect sheet. "We're doing pasta night, Johnny. Every Thursday from now till the end of time. And not that box stuff, fresh, homemade, from scratch. And the sauce, fresh tomatoes," she inhaled through her nose as she said it. He could still see her floppy, tied-up hair, her unwavering grin, and gentle expression as she cranked the vintage pasta maker. "And what's so funny, Johnny?" She'd ask. I couldn't help but chuckle. She was a mess, a lovable pig pen. Flour painted her cheeks, and passion spotted her dark apron. She sauntered over to me with a delicate touch, swiped my cheeks with the white powder. She held her hands there gingerly. "Now, we're both a mess, so no more laughing," she said with a smile, her eyes pulling me into her playful trance before she kissed me softly.

Just a coincidence, I thought. I slotted the book back in its rightful place and headed back out into the cold.

Derrick and I ran through our typical sequence. We spoke about the weather, sports, and times of our childhood. A good dose of nostalgia was usually mandatory. We nabbed a nice spot next to the window, watching as large flakes of snow began to whirl in the accumulating breeze. I sipped my cooling coffee, contemplating taking a chunk of my friend's scone. "So, have you visited her grave yet?" I pulled my hand away from his plate, startled by the sudden switch in topic. Derrick was never very subtle; he didn't mind breaching a sensitive subject, and since Tessa was a mutual friend, it didn't give him much pause. "No, I haven't." I reluctantly admitted. "Well, I left her some flowers and a nice letter. Cleaned up some of the leaves to make it look nice. Here, look." After some frantic swiping, he shoved his phone in my face. "Here, see." I didn't want to cause alarm, so I didn't look away even though every fiber of my being protested to redirect my gaze. I must have flinched, Derrick slumped in his seat, sighing meagerly. "Listen, man, it's ok to talk about this. At some point or another, you're going to have to grieve; it wouldn't be right not to. That's how we keep her alive; we can't treat her like Voldemort, he who must not be named." Despite Derrick's misplaced humor, he was right; I haven't even let it infiltrate my world. It just seemed better to me that way, to not even give it an inkling of a thought. I haven't even cried yet, I couldn't let that reality even close to my consciousness. "Look, dude," Derrick leaned in close. "She's still here, man, you just gotta look for the signs." Derrick was someone we called a true believer; anything ethereal or other worldly, he'd jump on like a childhood fad. "A soul never dies, it just returns to the universe in some other shape or form. Like my Grandmother." Jonathan has heard this story a million times before, but he decided not to shake Derrick's enthusiasm. "Every summer we take a trip up to Maine. Me, Alex, and the boys. That one particular year, my grandmother had passed. I didn't feel up to going, but Alex insisted that it'd be good for me. He was right." Derrick took a slurpshot sip of his coffee before continuing. "As soon as we exited the car, there was a row of red admiral butterflies pollinating the milkweed. My grandma loved butterflies, and her favorite color, red." He peeked at me over his mug as he swallowed the last bit of Americana. I didn't have the heart to tell him that a bunch of monarchs in the woodlands during the hot season was very typical, but why harsh his mellow? I contemplated telling him about the book, but I didn't want him to get too jazzed up. "I don't know," I replied. "I'd need a sign that was unquestionable, like something remarkable, something that wasn't where it should be, like butterflies in the winter." Derrick couldn't help but laugh. "Ever the skeptic, but I guess that sight would be undeniable." The light flickered as he said it, causing both of us to look up. Derrick snapped his head back to my line of sight, "See, dude, they know we’re talking about them." Yeah, faulty wiring wasn't enough to convince me someone was trying to communicate from beyond.

Grace:

Despite her indignation and disregard for advice, Grace knew her therapist was right. Her stubbornness would have to give way to healing. She bit the bullet and called everyone she knew for help. Consignment shops, movers, and the art institute. All of her mother's pieces had to go. A storm of people clamored around the house, displacing and reorganizing all of her prized possessions. The commotion seemed distant; for a time, she lived in a state of reminiscing. The memories of each piece from her mother's collection were louder than anything going on around her. She made sure she gathered the last bittersweet echoes before the sculptures left forever. Soon, the bank would own this house, but they couldn't take its soul. She continued to clear out the closet under the stairs where her mom would store some of her more experimental knick-knacks. She grabbed an old shoe box and cleared the dust from the lid. In black script, it read: FOR THE NATURE CENTER. She broke the seal, unearthing the contents, which brought a flood of emotions and a long-forgotten memory. Inside was a row of neatly kept paper butterflies. Monarchs with a majority of its wings coated in deep purple and flecks of black. Purple was her favorite color. Each delicate insect had a mechanical spring embedded within its small frame.

"What are you working on, Mom?" "Come here, my love, and I'll show ya." Grace wiggled her way onto a seat next to her mother. Grace's mom sheathed her soldering iron and brought the mechanical bug close to Grace's face, holding it ever so slightly so as not to disturb the dainty mechanics. "These little lovies are my latest project. They are called flutter feeders—they're going to be a part of the grand opening of the nature center's new butterfly exhibit. See now, Grace." She positioned the flutter feeder in her palm, granting them both a closer look. "These wings are full of biodegradable material; they get wet and spread nutrients to the ground. Whatever grows there can thrive. And that's not even the coolest part," she smiled. Grace's mother pinched the wings together and held the faux monarch in front of her. "These things are spring-loaded, with just enough tension…" She let go, and the miniature mechanism fluttered in the slot of sun divided by the stained glass windows before it fell and skittered onto the hardwood. Grace stammered with excitement. "Can I try?" Her mother mirrored that excitement. "But remember, you have to give it just the right amount of tension." She similarly pinched the wings, just as she had done before. "Too much for too long, and it will break," she pressed hard, and the miniature before her dissolved in her hand. "Wow, these are probably the coolest things you've made, Mom." Grace's mother leaned in close before whispering somberly, "No, my love, I think you're the coolest thing I created." She kissed her tenderly on the forehead. Now they were both smiling.

Thanks, Mom, this is precisely what I needed. Grace closed the lid and made her way to the front porch.

Jonathan:

Jonathan couldn't help but think Derrick was right; he usually was when it came to these things. Plus, Jonathan was becoming numb; he came to the sudden realization that feeling nothing for too long became inevitably worse than going through the emotions. Before he went for his daily walk, he decided to hopefully wrangle up some feelings. He synced up his phone to his house speakers and let the A.I. DJ take over. He loved doing this; it was purposefully curated to the music he liked. Even though it was the same stagnant genre and featured the same four bands repeated out of order, he still enjoyed it because it was familiar. He cracked open the folding closet doors and skirted his hand through Tess's summer dresses. This was the first time he'd even glanced at her things since her passing. She loved the summer, the beach, and the warmth; he could picture her, gracefully shambling on the sandy boardwalk, her arm tightly tucked under his as she peered under her sun hat, watching the waves come ashore. Jonathan kneeled, placing a hand on her old jewelry box. The hinges sang as he opened it. He riffled through her old treasures, stirring her novelties with his hand, feeling the different textures before picking up a cloth bracelet. She loved anything homemade or handcrafted. A majority of its contents were purchased from Etsy, a far cry from a typical jewelry box. Tessa's was full of seashells and neon colored beads. It was just a token of her uniqueness and her relentless approach to being nonconforming. He missed that attitude; he missed her. He took the box and sat on his side of the bed. The soft mattress gave way to his weight. He glanced at her side for a moment; her pillows, her nightstand - nothing had changed. Even the scent of her perfume was a ghostly presence lingering within the confines of her duvet. A spot that would forever remain empty. The emotions welled up, and he felt his stomach knot, a precursor to some realization. The flow was suddenly halted when the artificial disc jockey's voice sounded out in an eerily human tone.

"Ok, here's a little something different, I hope you enjoy it." What followed would momentarily shake Jonathan. In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel became deafening as it filled the house, smothering his world. In Your Eyes. Her favorite song. For a moment, she was there again in her bedroom getting ready for a party while she twirled and danced to the music, fitting her earrings to her outfit while singing out of tune. This was far too much for Jonathan, who grabbed the phone and stormed outside for his walk. He barricaded his affection, and his rigidity returned. No, still just a coincidence. I need something undeniable.

Grace:

Grace, snug in her winter coat and gloves, tiptoed to the railing of her front porch. She placed the box on the deck chair and grabbed two flutter feeders. She put her hand just over the edge, squeezed, and let them fly one after another.

Jonathan:

The walks cleared his head a bit, gaining some semblance. He was on his way to his first checkpoint, the old art manor.

Grace:

Grace continued to float her mom's makeshift butterflies into the air. Along with it, her pain, her sadness, her unendurable grief that racked her brain. She watched as the last one danced into the elegance of the winter daylight. She held the last one in her hand. She looked at it and saw her mother smiling. Grace's heart was whole. I'll have you forever, Mom, all the wonderful memories you gave me, but this time with a lot less pain. She pocketed the butterfly and went inside.

Jonathan:

The snow was just cleared out enough for him to walk comfortably without his sneakers getting soaked. He glanced over the bank at the end of the street. The clouds peeled away from the fresh sun, iridescent beams shot through the white powder, glazing the atmosphere in a bright glow. Through his speckled vision, Jonathan noticed something strange: an eye floater, perhaps a nat, hard to say. The object hit the crisp cascade of luminescence just enough to highlight its violet body. The shape and color were indistinguishable. He gasped at the indisputable. “While ill be damned,” he whispered to himself. As the last slight trace of the exquisite anomaly left his eyeline, his waning emotions returned. Surging with forgotten evocations and wistful yearning. He gave in to the storm. He shambled over to a secluded seat on a freshly dusted bench and wept. “Butterflies in the winter.”