Chasing Butterflies

I wake up every day and follow the sunbeams spilling into my room like rivers of light. They guide me to the bathroom mirror, where I see a face that belongs to someone I don’t quite recognize. Is that me? I have suspiciously texturized skin, like a raisin left too long in the sun. My hair is white, but I like to think it’s just a shade of platinum, like the stars in my favorite song.

"Good morning, beautiful," I say to the mirror, and for a fleeting moment, I believe it.

The house has corners that feel intense and familiar yet distant, like the flavor of a dish I once loved but forgot how to cook. I make my way down the hallway, touching walls covered in frames; they contain faces smiling wide, and I smile back at them—my family, I remind myself—but their names often escape me.

Today, the smells wafting from the kitchen pull me into the living room. My beige armchair sits invitingly, and I check the small table beside it; there is a pen and a colorful notepad. God knows I love to write. I strike the paper with my pen but come to an abrupt halt, staring at the blue lines and the empty white canvas. Should I jot down my thoughts? I can’t remember what I meant to say. It frustrates me, and I push the pad aside, focusing on the sunlight flickering through the windows instead.

A loud bang from the kitchen jolts me. Annabelle, my dearest friend—she is always here with me. I laugh as she wanders out, pink apron on, laughing like she just shared the funniest joke in the universe.

"Look who’s up!" she says in that way that sounds rehearsed and joyful at once. "You’re just in time for some raspberry muffins!"

Delicious.

“Every day is a feast, isn’t it?” I reply, beaming. Annabelle nods, her smile luminous. I sense an ancient connection swirling between us. We talk about everything, and nothing. I ramble about once being a ballerina—could I have been?—and about the time I found a turtle in my bathroom, vivid stories skimming the surface of my mind like pebbles tossed into a quiet pond.

Then, brightly colored moments flash in and out of focus—words that float away before I catch them. It’s like chasing butterflies. I used to catch so many, I’m certain of it. Then sometimes, I can’t say why or how, they flit away just out of reach. Someone tells me that the memories get hazy as we grow old. It's a natural thing, they say, and yet I feel the whisper of anxiety curling in my stomach like a cat coiling to pounce.

“Do you remember anything about the show last week?” Annabelle asks suddenly, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

I nod, suppressing a shiver of unease. The cobwebs swing, flapping like a curtain as I search for the answer, shifting through my mind’s attic. There’s something vivid—a stage, laughter, perhaps a flower bouquet tossed into the audience. “The blue dress!” I exclaim, grasping at it, bodies swirling in my vision. “It was splendid!”

But her laughter fades slightly, and she reaches out as if to steady me. “That’s right!” she says too enthusiastically, but it doesn't quite sit well. Why do I suddenly feel like an imposter?

There's a moment, where I stare into her eyes, those bright orbs, and beneath her smile, I see—fear? Concern. My heart lurches, a shadow creeping in, and I say, “Let’s plan another show.”

“Alright, we will," she replies, so soft—like she knows I’m lost. But I shake the thought off. I’m not lost. I’m here. I’m present. We hug, and it feels safe. An anchor in this place where everything else feels afloat.

I shuffle away into the garden, finding solace among the flowers, talking to them to pass the time. “What a wonderful day we have,” I murmur, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “A brilliant day to plant dreams.”

Somewhere, I hear a distant voice breaking the tranquility. “Is she okay?” The phrase crashes against the glass landscape of my mind, rattling within me, but it’s soon subsumed by the chatter of bees and the warmth of the sun enveloping me like a silken shawl. I know they refer to me; I’m sure of it. They’re just curious about our secret garden, admiring my flowers.

As evening creeps in, the world is painted in shades of gold and indigo. I curl up in my chair, clutching the notepad again. I repeat the names I can't recall, tracing them with my finger. “It’s Monday…” I tell myself, but it’s the wobbly words that spiral.

When Annabelle shuffles back in with a cup of tea, the light hangs dimly behind her, casting ghostly shadows. “How are you doing?” she asks, her voice strained.

“Of course I remember you,” I say, though it dances just beyond the periphery of my thoughts. My heart beats faster. “You’re my best friend!”

But as the curtains fall around us and the stars pop into the sky like handfuls of glitter tossed across a dark canvas, I find a snippet of clarity. I am drifting; there is some gravity ripping me away. I grapple with it, wrestling against a wave, feeling weightless yet heavy.

“Everything is fine,” I whisper to her, though I glance towards the shadows that linger across the room. “I just... need to write it down.”

That’s when the truth cuts through like the slash of a knife: I forget things, but what do I forget? What are we protecting?

I let it flicker away, refusing to accept it, clinging to solace for just another moment longer. Just as I feel the air growing thicker around me, I hear her gentle laughter again.

The light dims, and I drift off, hoping tomorrow holds everything I’ve lost.