The Memory of Butterflies

by Grace Greene

foolish for no reason. At least it was with Roger. Roger might be curious, but he wouldn’t press the issue or hold it against me.

the orange ones.” “Don’t even consider it.” She groaned. “Mom, no fair. Everyone has tattoos now. And this one is appropriate. Symbolic.

forever. Nothing stays the same, I reminded

anything else, marked the biggest change in our lives and in our plans, though we didn’t necessarily understand it at the time. In our grief, we

Babs gave me a turquoise T-shirt with her company name printed on it, but otherwise I wore jeans and sandals. I cleaned several houses a week. It wasn’t hard work, and my

up around the sides of the pot. George Bridger had suggested

handful by handful, and returned the earth from whence it came. I held my breath, watching her. I

certainly did have a knack for

her pretties.”

her arms around me, and kissing my hair, and of her teaching me

it surprised me. The twanging and pulling, the sounds of forcible dismantling, rang in my head and tore at my heart. It forced me to my feet. Roger turned to look at me, grimaced,

or some such thing. In a world where my

no idea whether anything was actually stored there. I’d forgotten about it, but seeing what was under the hearth reminded me.” Roger spoke loudly enough

work

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry I did things in the wrong order and that you lost your father and never got to know him. I’m

up. I buried her in the cemetery.”

head. My face

died.” “She died.” I echoed her words. “My baby died.” I gasped. I’d

larger pot, caught her eye. She reached toward it and captured it, cradling