Laura Miller - Butterfly Weeds

He read the caption, and then I watched as his eyes returned to the photo again. He snickered some more and then continued.

“Crazy nut. Well, that’s one way to get more dates. He might not be my hero, but I bet he’s somebody’s,” he said, chuckling and winking an eye in my direction.

Oh, God, did he know?

He handed me back the newspaper and shuffled toward the toaster resting on the countertop at the other end of the kitchen.

Well, if he did know, at least he was going to let it go. I sighed a sigh of relief, and then I held the paper in front of me once again, my grass ring in view, and got lost one last time in its front page image and in the night I hoped I’d never forget.

Moments went by, and the memory just kept replaying itself in my head. And before I knew it, I was smiling like a goofy, little kid, lost in my own little world, until my dad’s words from across the room suddenly jerked me back to reality again:

“By the way, you never told me what you did to that ankle of yours.”

Ileft Will wrestling with the patchwork quilt as I ventured to the edge of the bluff. I could see downtown beginning to come to life like someone had just shaken the summer version of a tiny snow globe. Little street lights were illuminating miniature figures that were making their way around the old, red-brick buildings and paved streets. Only this time, instead of the mini people donning tiny, wool coats, they wore shorts and tee shirts, and freshly cut grass took the place of fake snow, devouring the ground where the mini people walked. I wondered for a second if I shook it up, would grass fly everywhere?

Between a set of railroad tracks and the muddy Missouri River, a life existed — one of a more mature nature, if you will. Only several shops constituted New Milford’s downtown — a dime store, a tiny, one-room movie theater, the post office, a bait shop and a restaurant that changed hands every so often. They were the lucky ones — the only businesses that had survived a levee break in the last flood.

A freshly red-painted train caboose had, for decades now, made its home on a green, little patch of the world outside of the one-room post office. Every small town that I had ever been to had had a caboose. It was as common as a water tower adorned with the high school’s mascot or a lumberyard in the center of town, I guess. Although, now that I was thinking about it, the caboose did seem a little odd. What purpose did it serve — or was it just for decoration? Did the elders of all small towns really think it was ornamental — like a welcome sign or flowers? Welcome to New Milford. Can I interest you in a photo next to our caboose?

My forehead wrinkled slightly as I pondered to myself the great questions of modern times before my eyes left the caboose for more grass-globe images.

My gaze rested on a spot on the levee. Park benches and a small, white gazebo sat overlooking the river, begging passersby to pause from the world for a moment — to take in the way the current pushed its way south or the oaks that swayed in the wind on bluffs far off in the distance. The levee had always been my beach, the world beyond it, my ocean. That’s as close as it got here, anyway. No waves, no dolphins, no white sand, no sea gulls. If you were lucky enough, though, every once in a while you did get to see a crane, or a beaver.

A smile crossed my lips. If you could be so lucky, I thought as I took one last look at the world below my high perch before making my way back over to Will.

I could hear the crickets and tree frogs starting their night song in the small, wooded area behind us. A faint smell of lilac filled the air. There was always lilac in this part of town. Where there were grandmothers, there was always lilac. And by now, a blanket of darkness had just swallowed up the sky, capturing us in its shadowy web.

“You need help there, Chief,” I asked Will playfully, avoiding a small tree branch strewn across my path.

“Now, you ask, after all the work’s done as usual, My Dear,” he answered playfully.

I paused and smiled at him.

“Get over here,” he demanded with a grin.

I took a couple more careful steps and slid down onto the patchwork quilt spread out over the dirt and grass below it. Will scooped me into his arms and together we fell back onto the blanketed earth.

“How much longer do we have?” I asked him.

“Oh, probably about a couple more minutes,” he replied, squeezing me closer to him.

“Sing to me then,” I protested happily.

“What do you want me to sing?” he asked, smiling wildly.

“One about us,” I said.

We were both on our backs. My head was resting against his chest. I could hear his heartbeats.

“Okay then,” he said softly.

There was a slight pause before he began, but when he did, his voice was almost a whisper — raspy and sultry — perfect.

I laughed.

“How romantic,” I gushed sarcastically.

“I wrote it myself — just now — just for you,” he said proudly.

“Thanks. I’ll just do some creative interpreting, I guess,” I joked and raised my head slightly off of his chest so that I could see his face. “But seriously, though, minus those passionate words, you can really get a girl’s attention. You should sing, you know, for people, as a career. You’ve got a gift. You can’t hide it forever.”

“Why can’t I?” Will bantered back, using his hand to nudge my head closer to his body again.

I followed his lead, and he kissed my forehead.

“Because someday, somewhere, somebody’s gonna find out. Then what are you going to do?” I continued.

“Tell them I’ve got everything I need right here,” he said, wrapping his arms around me.

I smiled wide and allowed his muscular arms to form around my body, though I was determined to get my point heard.

“Wouldn’t it be a dream-come-true though?” I persisted. “Plus, you would be doing the world a severe injustice if you didn’t.”

Will lowered his face to mine and then brought his lips to my ear.

“Mine is a far simpler dream, my Sweet Jules,” he whispered in that sultry voice of his — the voice that only a year ago I wouldn’t have heard the same way.

“See what I mean with that voice. I almost believed you,” I said, laughing.

“Jules, trust me. My life’s a dream already. I don’t need to go chasin’ something somewhere else,” he said.

“But you’re not at all attracted to the thrill of it all, the lights, the fans that would adore you?” I asked sincerely.

“Okay, okay, don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself?” he asked me, laughing softly. “Fans?”

“Well, you won me over, and I’m not easily convinced — you said that yourself,” I reminded him.

“Alright, my little Hollywood agent,” he said, continuing to smile. “You’re right, I’ve got you, and that’s all the fan I ever wanted.”

He softly kissed my lips, while someone went and let loose butterflies in my stomach again. He had won, and the butterflies were the sign to prove it. I was forced to surrender. I really didn’t want to argue with him on that point.

I sighed — a content, happy sigh, as the first fireworks soared to our height over the muddy water below. Reds, whites and blues sprinkled the night sky and lit up the countering bluffs in the distance.