Beautiful Butterflies

February 28, 2012
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Two years have passed and
I’ve grown
as well as the cancer
inside my grandma’s body.
She has stopped her treatments—
convinced they’re the devil.

Now as we walk around her house,
we realize something is different:
dark green vines are beginning to brown,
horses hide in the stables most of the day,
the once sun-lit room
is now dark and dim.

As my sister and I inch onto her bed,
we’re careful—
Grandma is a fragile china doll.
Her frail hands move slow—and from a
red-felt box,
she unravels two necklaces,
and hands one to each of us.
“They were mine when I was your age,
I want you two to have them”

The purple butterflies float in
front of us—
reminding me of the summers of our past.
She opened her warm arms
and embraced us tightly.
I
never


wanted





to let go.





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