The butterflies are big this year.
The butterflies are big this year.
They swoop and twist into my view until all I can think of
is the boy, who should be almost eight.
They are the usual March butterflies – large sweeping black and white wings, with just the slightest suggestion of crimson tips
but there are others too.
Small yellows and
blue winged beauties flit precariously about.
They dance on sunlit billows of air
- belatedly hot.
Reminders are everywhere, it seems.
I’m sitting outside watching two of them circling in a dance of very early Autumn -
the mornings are newly crisp but the days are still long
and I suddenly think (and am catapulted back to that day)
how much I hated that doctor who came to us on that awful April morning.
I hated everything about him.
His sad, pale eyes that told me he had made his ‘no chance of survival’ speech way too many times for one man’s burden.
His tallness and yet his stoop – ed – ness.
The stance of the defeated.
I loathed how his eyes drilled into me as he searched my response.
His quiet, gentle voice.
I did.
I hated him then
but of course I didn’t really
and I don’t today.
In fact, it’s quite the opposite.
I just hated what he came there to do.
I hated what he had to say.
I imagine that any day you have to tell a mother and father that their baby will die
is not a good day at all.
We clung to each other then,
David and I,
knowing that he was not telling us untruths.
Knowing that we would need to let our beautiful son go from this world.
They never tell you when you plan to have a baby
that some of them have such a short lifespan,
that some of them will merely be a whisper in your memories
but it’s true.
Some babies flit precariously into your life
just like the butterfly.
They may alight for a while -
just long enough for you to observe their beauty,
their symmetry
and how their presence lights up the air, makes you feel as though you can breathe
but then they are gone
and you can never touch them.
Even in your memories they circle softly
but always just out of reach.
I’m sitting on the verandah watching as the two swirl away in a blur of colour.
I miss him,
my butterfly boy.
xxx
the line you wrote: “some of them will merely be a whisper in your memories” is just beautiful.
{{hugs}} I am the same about rainbows…………….both times when I left the hospital with empty arms there were rainbows in the sky constantly during our trip home.
I love butterflies too but the love is always tinged with sadness at their too brief lives. They are the embodiment of the fleeting nature of beauty.
Thinking of you all at William’s anniversary. xx
A friend of mine had butterflies visit when her 17yo daughter died. Whenever the sadness got too great for her to bear, it seemed a butterfly would appear and distract her – we always said that it was Emily’s way of sending a message of love.
Hugs to you all.
Your writing is hauntingly beautiful. I do not know you or your family yet I am sitting here with tears for you, your family and Will. Thank you for sharing your thoughts.
Incredibly lovely.. Poignant. XO
Hugs. X
Hugs .
You write so beautifully about him. What a great honour to him.
xx
Don’t know what to say Tiff, but felt I had to say something. Xxx
I don’t know who told me, but not long after my dad died, someone said they had read butterflies are memories of those we have lost. I thought yeah whatever and then the first Christmas eve after he had died, we were at a his best mates house & hundreds of butterflies flew over their house, was amazing and bizarre and I have never seen anything like it. I now like to believe it was a little sign from him for christmas? So now whenever I see them in the garden I always think it’s a little hello from him.
Not entirely sure why I wanted to say this, but I found it comforting in weird way and wanted to say something to you.
I tried being eloquent but there’s tears instead.
xxx
my dear Tiff and Dave, I am so sorry about William’s birth and death. That it is now 8 years but feels as if it were yesterday is more painful. The butterflies…made you stop, think and remember too.sometimesjust to do that is the best way to hold a memory so precious.
Denyse XX
We miss him too…but will never forget. Much love xoxox
Big gorgeous butterflies for a big gorgeous boy
Massive hugs
I hope they bring you the same comfort I get from sparrows visiting. My mum used to always feed the local sparrows at her home and when my mum died I would always seem to get visits from sparrows, when dad died there were two sparrows who visited. Don’t see too many these days but when I do I always feel comforted by the thought ‘they’ are still around
I have my own butterfly boy, what lovely words you have for your son. Thanks.
A little comic relief here. My friends chihuahua had a severe skin condition, so bad she had to be put down. As I. left the vets, she saw a robin red breast. Now every spring she and several of her friends all talk to Robins especially the first one of spring saying “Hi, contessa”.
I was at the cemetery today, the second anniversary of the death of his elderly mother. In the midst of a winter that has seen very little snow and alternating spells of hot then cold weather, Serially repeated. Suddenly two rows away appeared 13 robins “hi Contessa”!
Beautiful words straight from the heart where your butterfly boy always dwells. Of course you miss him and always will, even without the reminder of Autumn butterflies. xoxo
a well worded reminder to all moms. thank you
Beautifully written. I lost one of my best friends several years ago and always think of her when I see butterflies. A couple of weekends ago my friends and I were on a houseboat and a butterfly hung around for ages. I was sure it was a little angel coming to say hello!
I love you–thank you for reminding me about butterflies
When butterflies come to visit i tell my girls it is Sienna coming to play with us as i think William sent them butterflies to remind you he is still near to you watching over you. You write absolutely beautiful Tiff i wish i could write like that. Sending you much love xoxox