Flutter

The butterfly flapped its wings rhythmically against the firelight, a lattice of royal blue and obsidian on its wings, performing a haunting dance before it landed softly on the back of my hand.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I looked up at my companion through the flame of the bonfire. He was looking at me intently, a sad smile on his face.

“Yes. I don’t think I’ve seen such bright colors before.” I muttered, not quite meeting his eyes.

“He loved butterflies, you know, he said it was the only creature that could completely destroy itself, and come out the other side transformed into something beautiful.”

I nodded.

“I wonder if that’s true.”

“What?”

“If it’s the only creature that can do that.”

I looked down at the flutter of blue perched on my hand. “I miss him.”

“I know.” He stood up and put his hands in his pockets, a gust of wind blowing a few brown curls out of place on the top of his head. For a second, in that moment, I swear I thought I saw a glimpse of you. You always took after your father.

A cramp of pain suddenly seized me in the chest. Will it always hurt this much? Why does it hurt just as much a whole year after losing you?

“Has he told you that story?” Your father asked, he was looking away, staring off into the distance.

You did. I had almost forgotten. You had a way with words and always had a good story to tell. You liked to tell that one.

I didn’t answer. I let your father tell it to me one more time.

“He said that there didn’t use to be butterflies, that caterpillars were just that, simple insects that lived and died, and there was nothing after.” Your father glanced at the butterfly on my hand. “Then one day, God looked at the caterpillar and gave them a gift, the gift of rebirth.”

A tear slid down silently down my cheek to my hands.

“In exchange he gave them a task, the task of guiding humans through the afterlife, a reminder that even out of complete destruction, can come beauty, and hope.”

I scraped at my wet eyes. Self-destruct was certainly something you did. I tried to breathe through the tightness in my chest. “But there’s no beauty here.” I gestured to myself. “Nor hope.”

“He was in pain.” Your father said sadly. “He didn’t want us to suffer with him. Whatever he did… you can’t deny he had love. All he had was love for us, for everyone.”

“I know.”

“It's not fair.”

I looked at your father, my husband, pained. "I know."

The butterfly on my hand seemed to flutter its wings in response, then it rose to perch itself on my left shoulder. It reminded me of the way you would lean your head there, when you were little, sleeping soundly. I could stare at your face forever, your expression completely at peace, everything in the world just right, in that little moment.

The good days, when we had them in between the bad, were good. The way you were bright, so bright, the smartest kid in your class, always getting carried away with whatever interesting thing you just learned. The way you would chuckle at the cheesiest jokes of a movie with that ridiculous laugh, how you were kind, the kindest person I knew, always thinking of everyone but yourself, the world on your shoulders.

Perhaps you carried a bit too much.

A blue wing grazed my cheek.

Suddenly, inexplicably, even as I wept, my chest felt just a little bit lighter.

Maybe, next year, it will be a little bit easier to breathe, too.