The Violet Butterflies

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. That was when the violet butterflies sang, and when those tiny voices were carried upon the wind, a pair of lovers would meet.

I met you when the violet butterflies sang many years ago. I could not hear their voices then, but their essence carried on the breeze nonetheless. A butterfly’s song is true love, after all. Holding your hand now, as you lay in your hospital bed, pale fingers gripping my own with what little strength you have left, I know this to be true.

We were married beneath those purple clouds in their blushing sky - and I think, as you have told me many times, the blush across my face was the deeper one. “You outshine the sky,” you said in a soft voice, barely a whisper, hidden within the song of the butterflies.

“Shush,” I had told you. “To say such a thing is bad luck, and you know it.”

You smiled, then, and brought my hand to your lips to gently kiss the skin. We would be married soon. Bad luck didn’t matter.

The food at our wedding, the cakes and pastries, they soaked in that butterfly song, became drenched in it, and before long everyone was dancing with us. No one had tasted anything like it, and no one ever would again.

I think, perhaps, you are paying for those blasphemous words as you lie in the dull hospital bed. Nothing here has any colour, as if it was all drained and redistributed to the rest of the world to make it brighter. Greys and whites are the only hues, and it makes my eyes so tired. There is no hope here, there are no butterflies.

Intricate, stained glass window wings fluttered gently there, beneath a soft sky. They would alight upon the taller of the wildflowers, but only ever for a moment before they would rise to perform their dance once more. I wish I could remember that tune to which they dance, but it is so difficult to put my finger on it, though I can feel it playing about the tip of my tongue.

We brought out children, when they were born, there at midnight. The first slept soundly, without a care in the world. When we brought the second, she would not stop crying - not until one of those butterflies set itself upon her nose. There was silence, then, save for the song. She was blessed by them, as we were.

A butterfly brings beauty into the world, but it is so fragile and its time is so short. We were blessed with the same, were we not? Our daughter, too, went far too soon. The butterfly’s wings shattered, it lost its flight, and she was gone along with it in an instant.

You should never have told me that I outshone the sky, but it is too late for that.

“I’ll tell you every day,” you had said. “I’ll tell you until you're sick to death of hearing it.”

I did grow quite sick. I don’t know how many times you said it - I lost count after twenty-six or so. The nausea was intense and dizzying, but you caught me before I hit the floor.

“I told you not to,” I said, though my voice was as weak and limp as my body.

You took care of me, then. That was before the children came along. You tucked me into bed with a kiss on the forehead and pulled the blankets up around my chin. “Still more beautiful than the sky,” you said, for what was at least the twenty-seventh time. I felt the world spin, but I saw your face so clearly in that moment.

What will I do without you? What will I do when the purple clouds return to dance with the blushing sky? You are my world, my entire world. You never should have said what it was that you said then. I do not dare repeat it again.

“You…” you spoke, voice rough with disuse. How long had it been since I had heard your voice? They told you it was best to conserve your energy, best not to speak. So we had whispered between us like school girls, soft as butterfly kisses.

“Sh,” I urged, though I leaned in close should you speak further.

“You were… brighter than the sky, mon amour,” you spoke, and I laughed so hard that tears spilled over my cheeks, splashed your dry, pale face. I laughed so hard my belly shook, I laughed so hard the hospital around us rumbled.

“Don’t say such things,” I spoke, but I knew it was too late.

The butterfly had landed amongst the grass, breathing its final breath. Our butterfly’s song was over, and one of us had to go. The last note was carried on that selfsame breeze that brought you to me, and with it, you exhaled the last of what was you.

I could not stop the laughter. It already had a hold of me, and the tears would not stop flowing. I would blame the violet butterflies that sang beneath the purple clouds as they danced with a deeply blushing sky.