Laura Miller - Butterfly Weeds

Then, slowly letting my eyelids fall over my eyes, feeling every gentle gust, I relax in the quiet, the calm, consciously feeling my chest rise and fall.

Eventually, I command my fingers back to life again and close my pen into my old, tattered diary. Then, I take out the few photos I keep safely tucked within the journal’s pages, and my tired eyes follow aged fingers as they trace the images of my love and I side by side. We are in our high school caps and gowns. He’s standing beside me, playfully gnawing on my kelly green and white tassel above my head. Our faces are vibrant and so full of life. We were so young then.

I finish tracing the images in the photo and then slide it behind another photo. Then, for a second time, I find my fingers methodically following the outlines of the snapshot. This time, I’m in a white gown and looking into his eyes. I’m smiling as if nothing in the world could ever make me sad. We look so happy and still so young. And now, even though I can still feel every wild emotion of the young girl in the photo, I resemble her no longer. God, I feel like it was yesterday that I was standing there so excited for my new life. It goes so fast.

I take a shallow breath and let it out slowly as I look deeper into the photo, recapturing every slightest detail, reliving every simple moment. Then, I slip the photos back inside the journal’s pages and softly sit the notebook onto my lap and continue my stare off into the distance at the lavender and crimson sunset fading into a tree-lined horizon. The sun would soon disappear. My arthritic hands ached from the writing, but I had said everything that I had wanted to say today, and I was happy that my ailing hands had allowed me to do at least that. It had been awhile since I had gotten the chance to write in the journal. It had become a habit of mine, in these last years, of taking the final moments of daylight to reflect on my days here on earth.

My lungs let out a sigh of contentment as I observe the scarlet sun sinking lower and lower into the tops of the farthest, emerald, leaf-filled trees. I watch the butterfly weeds dance in the breeze alongside the lake in the distance as the sky fades into a darker shade of blue. Above me, the dusk-to-dawn light flickers off and then on again. After several tries, the light finally remains lit and illuminates the place where I sit. Now, it is getting late. The thought has crossed my mind several times already that I had better be heading back inside before it would be too dark to see the path back to the house. The thought of leaving this scene saddens me a little, but I know that my already weary eyes will thank me later for the little light still left to get me home.

I take one last look at the colors in the sky fading into deeper shades before I start my journey. Then, I prop my left hand onto the arm of the chair in preparation of lifting my body from the chair’s surface. These days even the smallest of tasks become valiant efforts. As I brace myself on the chair’s arm, I use my other hand to pick up the tattered diary that rests in my lap and to move it toward the tiny table next to me. But when I bring the journal closer to the table top, the diary’s corner knocks the edge, sending it, the photos and the pen tumbling to the grassy ground below.

Frustrated by my clumsiness, I sigh and then slowly bend over in my chair and stretch my fingers toward the fallen photos. I pause, however, when I see a tri-folded piece of nicely pressed stationary next to the fallen journal, resting on the ends of the short spikes of grass. My eyes immediately leave the photos as my fragile fingers go instead toward the folded note. I hadn’t remembered putting anything loose into the diary, except for the photos and the pen. Although, the piece of paper could be anything. My memory doesn’t exactly serve me well these days.

Curious about the mysterious note, I gently gather up the pages and sit back into my chair again. I then carefully unfold the sheets of stationery with both hands and then slide my glasses back to the edge of my nose. The hand-written words on the page become clearer as my eyes sluggishly adjust to the dimmer lighting, and though I have never seen the letter before, I immediately recognize the hand writing. The realization makes me gasp, and as I bring my fingers to my lips, I can feel my creased hands grow clammy, shaky. It had been a month since the love of my life passed away, and instantly, my eyes anxiously, yet meticulously, follow the words on the page:

My Sweet Jules,

Don’t be frightened by this letter. I had some time, and I wanted to make sure you remembered some things — all of which I have told you before, but none of which I could tell you now without the help of this letter today.

First of all, though I am not able to sit with you tonight and watch the violets and pinks fade into the tree-covered horizon or the butterfly weeds dance their dance along the lakeside, please know that I am still with you and that my love will never leave you. Though I am not there beside you, continue to live your life like you always have — full of emotion and passion and drive. If you get lonely, think about when we were sixteen, when life was all our own, and we made the most of it. Remember our first kiss on that gravel road outside of town. Remember the first time that I told you that I loved you. You looked so beautiful that night with the fireworks reflecting off of your big, green eyes.

Jules, best of all, remember when you came back to me. You were my butterfly, Jules. You told me later that you were terrified and trembling as you stood in that field after the concert, but that’s not how I saw you. You looked beautiful and so sure of yourself in your blue jeans and tee shirt and blond curls. Though your eyes were damp, radiance beamed off of you like nothing I had ever seen. You were so brave, and I was so happy in that moment. You had come back to me, Jules, and I knew it. I never stopped thanking God for that day, and for you. I had missed you in those years that we were apart like I miss you now.

But, Jules, life only got better from there. From here on out, if you ever feel alone, think of our wedding day amongst the trees trying to hold onto their luscious, emerald leaves but losing the fight to tangerines and saffrons. I can still see you gathering the layers of your white silk into one hand and readjusting the bouquet of crimson daisies and tangerine butterfly weeds — exactly what you wanted — in the other. I was the happiest man alive watching you glide down that pearl-colored isle runner leading to the gazebo along the riverfront. Jules, you were beautiful that day, and you only got more gorgeous to me as the years went on. And remember when you handed me that tiny note scribbled on that piece of ivory napkin. Do you remember what it said, Jules? I remember it like it was yesterday: “Since my wish has come true, I guess I can tell you now. It was for you — for always. Love, Jules.”

And it had been years, but I knew exactly what you had meant. I knew that you were talking about your wish that night under the stars — the same night that inspired my love songs to you.

Then, my Sweet Jules, remember the years that we spent making up for lost time. Those were good years, Jules. We raised three, very wonderful, successful children, who all take after you. They have your same passion for life, and they’re so headstrong. You were and are a wonderful mother to them. They’ll do what’s right, Jules. Don’t spend your days worrying about them. They’ll be fine, Sweetheart.

Lastly, but by no means least, Julia Austin Stephens, my life began and ended with you. You were my world since I first laid eyes on you, and you may not realize it, but I carried you with me everyday since that moment, and yes, My Sweet Jules, I carry you with me even now. I never stopped loving you since the day that I met you, and though I can no longer hold your soft hand by your side, I love you no less than the day that I met you. You were the reason for my happy smiles and my heartfelt songs. You made me the man that I was proud to be, Jules. You were my hope and my inspiration and my every answer to prayer.