A butterfly,
fluttering through her backyard.
Sitting on her grandfather’s lap,
listening to stories,
that she does not
yet
understand.

A butterfly,
flying free,
outside the window
beside her.
In her younger years,
she might of ran to the window,
screaming with joy.
She dismisses the thought.
Who cares about butterflies?
Who cares about some old man’s
stories of the past when
you have the present
and the future?
She steps into the line of people,
waiting to see,
the new butterfly house
standing behind her family.
She doesn’t want to be here. . .
does she?

A butterfly,
flitting through
her mind
as she wonders about where
her childhood went
and about the
butterfly
that fluttered in and out of her
yard all those many years ago.
Regretting the things
she thought
about her grandfather’s
stories.
She knows now,
that they were important.
She turns away
from the window,
scolding herself.
“Stop it.
There’s nothing you can do.”
As she walks away from the window,
a butterfly
floats by
landing gracefully
on the windowsill.

A butterfly,
still lost in her
memory as she rocks
back and forth in a rocking chair.
An old woman,
sits soundly
in her living room.
Wondering where her life
has gone.
She smiles.
She knows.
Her life has been poured into stories.
Stories from everyone she knew.
Everyone she
missed to this day.
Whether it was because
she hadn’t seen them
in a while
or that they were
already gone.
She looked back down at her
latest project.
She was old,
and couldn’t move as well as she could
as a child.
It was a backyard,
very similar to her lasting memory
or her childhood home.
Her newest creation.
She looked out the window beside her.
The sun shot
rays of light
on to her garden,
flourishing with
sunflowers,
poppies,
and every other flower
you could imagine.
She missed the days
when she could laugh as
she played in her yard.
Then a memory hit her
and the rush of remembrance
was like drinking sweet lemonade.
She looked back down at her stitching
and smiled,
as she stitched
a blue butterfly
high
in the corner.