The wooden window frame creaks gently at the caress of the breeze. Dew drops tremble on the laden blades of grass running from the mailbox to the front steps. Sunglow shines at the edge of the world, kissing the brickwork of the sleepy cottage, built long ago for someone’s profit, filled this day mostly with love. In the kitchen, the faintest click signals the release of water, soon to be steam, then to become the rich black elixir that she loves with just a dash of cream.
As always the alarm is set but unneeded. Her long lashes flutter open to the glow of this new day. Most mornings her first thoughts are steeped in gratitude…for all of it. For her life, her child, her present moment, and still with some difficulty she embraces and acknowledges her gratitude for the past. Every day has lead to this moment, the aroma of coffee, the faint light filling the skylights, the peace that once seemed a phantom now seems a life.
“Mom”
“Yes, my darling one.”
“Can I have some coffee?” Her son Jonah asks.
“Certainly, but no sugar please.”
“Nevermind.”
“Joey, have you noticed what an amazing gift this morning is?”
“Yes mom, I said my gratitudes,” his words wander naturally down this well-worn path.
“Excellent! I love you!”
“Love you too.”
Three paintings hang on the wall, across the room from her king size bed. The painting on the left is of an intricately patterned caterpillar making its way across a birch branch in what looks to be late Summer. The next is of a delicate chrysalis suspended from a similar branch in the Fall. The painting on the right is of a magnificent butterfly taking wing in the Spring. So it goes that not every day has been this day, full of comfort, and love. But today, a few before, and many after will be very much like this one.
Discomfort, I’ve heard tell, is the price of admission to a meaningful life. Knowing the Butterfly Girl’s story, I believe that to be true.
#fiction
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