The butterfly perched atop my finger, stretching its blue, paper-thin wings. For a moment, I thought of curling my fingers over its body, trapping it in my palm. But like a golden star shooting across the sky, like a bout of stomach-churning laughter, or a fated first kiss—nothing lasts forever. I couldn’t keep the butterfly even if I tried. Eventually, she would escape through the webs of my fingers, or more bleakly, crumble by the weight of my effort to keep her still.
And so, I watched the butterfly soar until her wings melded with the clear blue sky. Disappearing just as easily as she came. A part of me felt disappointed, sad even, that she’d left so soon. But another part of me, just barely peeking through, felt envy. The butterfly had wings and could fly wherever she wanted. One day, I hoped that would be me, flying towards the sun while everything behind me shrank in the distance.
I stood on flourishing highlands, where a stretch of peaks painted the horizon before me. Nostalgia surged through my veins, flushing my dimpled cheeks. The last time I was here, my other half accompanied me. It was spring. I wasn’t cold, but he still threw his jacket over my shoulders. It draped over my narrow frame, and it never quite fit, falling just below my knees. Still, I wore it with pride and naivety, thinking I’d receive it a thousand more times. Until blue faded into grey, until threads came undone, and the zipper no longer zipped.
But now, I wandered these highlands with bare, naked shoulders while his jacket remained in pristine condition. My skin wouldn’t touch its soft cotton ever again, and I wouldn’t be the one to wear it thin.
He’d told me with college just around the corner, there was no delaying the inevitable. He was running off to the cold snow of New York, while I stayed put, nuzzled in the familiar comfort that was California. The word inevitable always caught me off guard. Never did I think love could have an expiration date. Maybe it was naive, but I always assumed us to stay together, even when separated by state lines.
Sun poured through puffs of white mist, a spotlight highlighting the grief on my face. I was certain my mom could see the little crinkle drooping the left corner of my mouth, the minuscule downward slope of my brows.
“You okay, hon?” Her hand found its way to my shoulder, but I shrugged it off before she could give me one of those reassuring squeezes. There was no point. Her love for me couldn’t bring back the butterfly.
“I’m fine,” I said the words convincingly, but I could not lie with my face like I could with my tongue.
Mom inched towards me, bowing her head in concern. I brushed past her and scurried towards our rusty Jeep before she could say: “Are you sure?”
I don’t think she’d believe me if I said yes. And I don’t think she’d stop trying to make me feel better after.
The door shut on my left, car keys jingling as they turned in the ignition. The stalling thrum of the engine sounded a lot like the thoughts running through my brain—trying to convince me I was fine when my heart simply couldn’t run smoothly. And I obliged the thoughts much like the jeep obliged my mom’s persistent foot. The wheels rolled over the gravel road, little pebbles crunching beneath tires.
“Are you sure?” Mom asked.
My gaze swept from the green tips of the mountainside to the green irises of her eyes. “Yes.” I rested my hands in my lap and traced the paths that lined my palms. Some strokes were straight, spanning from my wrist to my forefinger. Others were jagged and veering, with curves sprouting like vines from a flower. “I finally caught the butterfly,” I said, “but then it went somewhere else.”
She pursed her lips, fingers tapping on the wheel. “Are you sure?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?” I rolled the windows down so the wind could play with my hair, and I could pretend I felt carefree. “I’m fine.”
“No, I mean,” she pursed her lips with a huff, “are you sure the butterfly went somewhere else?”
Slowly, I craned my head towards her, brows furrowed. “Um, yeah, I’m pretty sure,” I said. “I watched it fly away.”
“But when you held the butterfly,” she said, “what feelings did it give you?”
“Not sure why it matters.” Whisps of auburn blew between my lips, and the window slid up, stilling the air. So much for carefree.
Mom cleared her throat in a way that said, “go on”. I answered her with an uninterested sigh. Really, I just wanted her to stop asking me questions, but another clear of her throat, and I knew my silence wouldn’t stop her insistence. I was like the gas of the jeep; she wouldn’t stop pressing for answers until I gave her one.
I tried giving her some semblance of an answer with a shrug. “I don’t know. Seriously.” She gave me a pointed glare. Images of the butterfly invaded my mind, its little feet tickling my skin. Holding her almost made me forget my last visit here. My chest, my arms, my whole body fluttered the same way with that jacket engulfing me. It made me feel…
“Free,” I answered my mom. “Loved, cherished, connected.”
Mom hummed like that was unsurprising. “So, it’s not the butterfly you miss but the way it made you feel.” The jeep took a sharp turn, and I gripped the door handle, stomach lurching. “And in that sense,” she continued, “the butterfly—at least what it means for you—isn’t actually gone.”
A scoff escaped me, but she kept going like she couldn’t hear my frustration. “The butterfly flew away,” she said, “but freedom, love, and everything else?” Her voice lowered, softening at the edges. “Those feelings will never go away. They are yours to keep, and you’ll feel them again, hon. Maybe with something or somebody else. But they will never leave you, not forever.”
I opened my mouth, then clamped it shut. I wanted to argue with her, tell her that sentiment did nothing for me, that it was ridiculous. But then warmth spread from my toes to my heart, and my skin prickled. Her care wrapped me in a blanket of soft cotton, and her words rang louder than the buzzing doubts in my brain. Her fingers curled into my shoulder, and I accepted the reassuring squeeze this time.
The jeep rolled into our driveway. I jumped onto the pavement, and before I could shut the door, a butterfly landed on the handle. Its wings were blue, paper-thin, but it wasn’t the same butterfly from the highlands. Yellow outlined the curves of its body, and when I admired its beauty, I felt free.
Isabela Rezende is the Fiction Editor of Atlantis Creative Magazine. She studies Creative Writing with a concentration in Publishing at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. Her writing is forthcoming in 30 North Literary Magazine, and her screenplay was a grand finalist at the Cary Film Festival. When she’s not lost in words, she’s likely wandering the shores of Wrightsville Beach or the gardens of Long Leaf Park.