The Butterfly Weighs In

Hi, I'm the butterfly tattoo on your shoulder.

Still here.

I know you forget about me sometimes. For long stretches of time, actually. It's okay. I get it. How long has it been, 10 years? That's like a million butterfly years. Didn't know butterflies have their own human age ratio, did ya? We do.

I know you think I'm a little outdated. You're a little embarrassed of me. I notice when you cover me up for work. I don't mind. Proud of you for getting after it, queen.

It makes sense. A lot has changed between the girl who eagerly picked me, smiled through the pain, squealed with delight seeing me in the mirror for the first time (permanent, puffy, red) - and who you are today. It took a lot for me to be here. I'll always love you for that.

And for when you proudly unveiled me to your friends. Is there anything holier than being the center of teenage girls' attention? It's the kind of adoration to which the church teaches us to aspire. It's nothing but pure joy. And desperate jealous longing. To be as cool as you.

That ecstasy is gone but somewhere in your heart of hearts, under the long sleeves you wear to hide me, is that girl who loved something so much she wanted it to be part of her forever. Without solemnity. With celebration.

Sure, maybe I'm fading, but only to disappear into you. Maybe time has passed me by, but time isn't linear. Time is a coming and a going. A leaving and returning. Same and different places. Same and different you.

I've had a million years to think about it, you know. I just wanted to remind you. Joy isn't something you are. Joy is something you choose.

---

"So, tell me a fun fact about yourself."

Suddenly everything I've ever done and know about myself falls out of my head. Static. Blank.

"A fun fact..." I draw out thoughtfully, as if mentally scanning my alphanumerically organized catalogue of fun facts while frantically casting around my brain for a single one. The face on my computer screen smiles unwaveringly out at me.

The hiking trips to Peru and to Australia for my birthday don't register. Might as well have never been. I can't remember a single hobby, not even an allergy - admittedly the most off-putting of corporate fun facts but at least something besides "I have a dog" which, frankly, I'm about to fall back on -

"I have a tattoo of a butterfly!"

I cannot believe these words come out of my mouth.

The smile on my screen falters and gives way to an outright laugh, and not a nice one.

"I don't think that counts as a fun fact."

My shoulder itches where I know the wings are. Who is he to say after asking such a stupid question?

"Oh, why not?"

"Because..." he starts. But I don't bite. I say nothing.

"Because," he restarts, a little mad I didn't do him the favor of supplying the punchline to a joke about myself, "I think plenty of women probably have a butterfly tattoo."

"Uh-huh. And why do you think that is, Wyoming?"

Now that's a question Wyoming wasn't expecting. Me either if I'm being honest. When was the last time I said something like that? But I can't deny it feels good. Blank stare on his side. What I imagine must be static going through his head now.

"I don't know - I'm sorry. It's nice. It is fun," he laughs. "I have a tattoo. It's actually for my football club." He makes as if he's going to roll his sleeve up and show me.

I laugh now, and not a nice one. "Should we talk about the call agenda for tomorrow?"

He's confused. "Um, sure. Yeah. Let's get into it."

---

It's my last meeting of the day and thank god. I shoot up from the desk and huff over to the bathroom. I have a sudden desire to see the winged culprit. "Why did I mention my dumb butterfly tattoo?" I berate myself while twirling my hair up into a clip.

"The dumb butterfly tattoo I got when I was 17?" I demand of myself, shaking off the blazer I threw on my top half for my meeting with Wyoming. Unnecessary. He showed up in his standard issue black hoodie.

"Why couldn't I remember Peru or Australia or the type of dog I rescued during the pandemic?" I wonder aloud, digging through the vanity for a hand mirror. I hold it up.

It's different than I remembered.

Smaller. Much smaller. Definitely round and a little childish. Definitely faded, but the placing on my shoulder is just perfect. It's feminine and cheeky and wonderful. I love it, and goddamn it, it's fun.

Probably the most fun thing about me.

I start laughing and realize I can't stop - at myself, at the butterfly, at Wyoming. I have other, much more fashionable tattoos I failed to mention. Each of those has a story. A reason for being. I love them all, but this, this was just for the fun of it. It was on the wall ready-made and just waiting to float down and sit upon my shoulder.

I'm overcome with an immense and rare love for myself and the little butterfly. Because the thing about me is, I'll go into a tattoo shop and shamelessly pick the most basic butterfly off the wall and love it. She's here in the pantheon of my life story and tattoos, the one most faded into my own skin, truly becoming a part of me. The most fun part of me.

--

I take a deep breath, tears brimming in my eyes from laughing myself silly and truthful.

I let it go.

My little companion flutters her wings on my shoulder. I swear I hear her laugh.