The Memory of Butterflies

by Grace Greene

It reminded me of her fascination with butterflies. She saw mystery in their beauty and in how metamorphosis wrought that change. But she was still young. I knew that sometimes the most significant changes were natural, but often they were painful or forced. There was no irony or mercy in nature but rather unsentimental, practical reality. Nature had destroyed the old building, but out of the destruction of the old, the new had been built, much like what we were planning with my home in the Hollow. It said something about the cycle of nature, the inherent logic of . . .

By my acts, I bound the lies to us forever, to secure the blessing of the gift of this child for however long we could manage to keep her. Those lies hung like chains. Chains of love or of deceit? Chains were chains. Eventually, they would grow heavy and difficult to keep hidden, regardless of why one first chose to wear them.

They said he changed. He accused your mother of seeing other men, looking for someone else because he wasn’t good enough. He insisted people were lying about him, and he threatened to kill her before he’d lose her. They kicked him out. Flat out. Your grandfather leveled his shotgun at him and told him if he came back, he’d have him arrested and shoot him to hold him there until the police arrived.

Apparently, we Cooper women had a way of writing our own history, either to suit ourselves or to save ourselves and our loved ones from pain. In the end, did knowing the truth make me feel better about things? No.

“Hannah, my experience has been that people cling too hard to the past, or they ignore it, or they try to obliterate it for their own reasons. This was a real thing here in Cooper’s Hollow. Centuries of lives and living. For you, it also represents decades of memories. Yet, despite the fire, you managed to go on with your life and raise your daughter. You have earned this opportunity to blend the past and bring it into the future—not to leave it as ruins. You are taking something fire destroyed and turning it into a home with both a past and a future.”

Have patience, I told myself. There is hope in patience. In the silence, I heard the distant sound of the creek and of the leaves in the nearby trees rustling.

“Laws are things politicians write down to make you do what they want you to do. I’m talking about rules. Moral rules but also common-sense rules. Most laws don’t have much common sense built in.”

I’m saying life doesn’t always lend itself to clear, easy choices.”