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A blue butterfly had alit upon the hallowed ground, its wings moving up and down as if a tiny engine idled within. It was unusual to see one in that part of San Francisco during the winter, and her friend remarked on it. Pausing in the task of stuffing lunch bags, the Mom turned to appreciate the beauty of her tiny visitor. Abruptly her eyes welled up with tears as a familiar scent entered her nostrils, her lips trembled as she felt the presence of a beloved taken from her. He strolls thru a lush field, exchanging pleasantries with those who had been there before, or who would be there at some point in the future. A musical mosaic of human history lies within each passing soul, and he draws it from them, blending ancestral memory into a melody, trapping the harmonics coursing through the astral plane and casting a symphony back to those voyagers sharing this realm of existence. It is his gift, music, increased to an infinite level.
He uses this gift when visiting, weaving a concerto into her dreams, hoping to pass his message but with little success. She still suffers. Contemplating a gentle breeze ruffling a patch of wildflowers, he harkened back to his childhood, and thought to pass the message...in beauty.
Its sensitive wings detect vibrations which register as sound. A familiar voice. Her voice! The colors were overwhelming, an entire spectrum invisible to the human eye. He saw her as no mortal was capable of seeing her. Nerve endings in its legs transmit emotional residue of his final moments to the brain he temporarily shares. A flash of psychic pain, tempered by her voice and proximity. Tiny antennae detects her familiar scent, it brings him security still, as it did when he was a baby. There is another scent, that of tears. Colors of love enfold him, and the tiny wings relay soft sounds. She is praying.
The Mom studied the butterfly tattoo. She had taught him how to ride a bike. He’d ride around the block, passing the house with that big grin, waving to let her know he was ok. Soon the block wasn’t big enough and he rode across town with the other boys. It was part of the journey, part of growing up. She had understood the message. The tattoo would always be there to remind her of this new stage of his journey. He was telling her he was ok. She would be too.
The friend noticed the blue butterfly first, seeing it alight upon the hallowed ground. Catching the Mom’s eye, she inclined her head towards it. The Mom finished filling the lunch bag and placed it with the others, smiling warmly. She gazed with love, and longing. The Mom knew it would be the butterfly’s final visit. She whispered her son’s name. |