Last
night she dreamed of their arrival. Shimmering clouds drifting over the
white-capped bay. The island’s tree-topped cliffs reaching with welcoming arms
offering rest and sustenance to the weary travelers. They were coming.
As
Iris opened her sight-faded eyes to the September dawn, her wrinkled face
creased into a smile as she softly murmured, “Not yet, not yet. Soon, soon. One
day more. Tomorrow is the equinox.”
She
reached for her thick-lensed glasses resting on the handmade, cherry-wood
nightstand beside her bed. One of the island’s walnut trees, felled by a storm
a century ago, had provided the wood for the carved, antique bed that Iris now
climbed out of to smooth the butterfly patterned quilt on top.
She
hobbled across the room in her nightgown to retrieve her faded, patched, green
robe from the chair in the corner and then limped carefully, one step at a
time, thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP, down the stairs to the kitchen.
The early
morning sunlight peeked over the windowsill to illuminate the tiny kitchen.
Iris filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and lit the propane burner
beneath. She readied the teapot and its cozy with the crocheted, orange
butterfly on the top. While the water heated, she busied herself rummaging in
the cupboards.
Clucking
like one of her hens, Iris said to herself, “I must prepare for my visitors.
They should arrive tomorrow. At least, I hope they will.”
She
covered the scarred, old table with a tablecloth and set out all of her dishes
upon it. Every plate, every bowl. Each and every one of her cups with matching
saucers. Even the serving platters that had held countless family meals in
decades past. The candlesticks and silverware had been polished last week and
now gleamed amongst the china. All of the well-loved, beautiful items were adorned
with images of butterflies.
After
her breakfast tea and a leftover biscuit slathered with summer honey gathered this
year from her bees, Iris dressed and proceeded outside to do the morning
chores. She released the chickens from their nighttime coop, fed the cat and
dog, and then strolled out to the garden to pick whatever was ready to harvest
today.
She
stood for several minutes gazing at the panorama that surrounded her cottage. She
could see the sparkling crests of the gray-green waves in the distance and hear
the whispering surf on the beach below the limestone cliffs. The wild meadows
blanketing the vista were full of every plant species native to the island, but
the milkweeds reigned over all, their tall blooms reaching for the blue sky and
swaying in the gentle, late summer breeze.
Iris picked
up her gathering basket, filled it with vegetables and herbs, and sighed with
pleasure as she headed back to the house. Everything was ready for tomorrow.
Next
morning, as dawn whispered over the horizon, Iris was awakened by shadows
fluttering on the bedroom window. She opened her eyes to witness the beginnings
of the long-awaited events of this day.
Live,
powder-soft wings began emerging from the butterfly fabric of the quilt
covering her bed as well as the curtains on the window leaving the worn fabrics
bare and white. Iris raced down the stairs as fast as her ancient legs would
carry her, heart keeping pace -
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP. As she passed the photos on the stairwell
walls, more shimmering wings and antennae erupted from the colorful images and
joyously soared after her.
The air downstairs was a
wingding of swirling hues filling the tiny kitchen. The china and silver on the
table were now plain white, stripped of their winged insect images. Even the
orange butterfly on the tea cozy found flight. Iris hobbled out the back door
and was met with a fluttering kaleidoscope so thick it obscured much of the
sun’s early rays.
The Monarchs had arrived.
They found
their way to Butterfly Island every year. Time would be spent resting, feeding
on the bountiful milkweed, and laying eggs. The next generation would emerge
from their chrysalises and continue the migration journey back toward the
warmer southern climates of Mexico, leaving Butterfly Island, and Iris, to face
the cooling of autumn and the winter snows alone. But the soft-winged souls
always brought a special gift just for her. A thank you for letting the native
milkweeds flourish in the rich soil around the little isolated cottage.
Through the haze of
butterflies, Iris could see faint shadows glimmering. She witnessed the shapes
and shades of her long-dead family, friends, and ancestors emerging between the
millions of fluttering wings. They all gathered in this place at this time each
year. The whisper-thin images waved cheerfully to Iris. Some even blew kisses,
put a hand on their heart, or reached out. She had always known they were
hovering nearby and watching over her every day, but the butterflies’ arrival
at the fall equinox was the only time she could glimpse their beloved faces for
an instant through the veil of death and life that separated them from her.
Iris
murmured to the gathered, precious shadows, “Not yet… not yet. I’m old and
tired but my work is not quite finished. The island must have a new
caretaker…soon…soon…”
Betty Brown was born and raised in the Northern Appalachia region of Southeastern Ohio. Her writing is influenced by the wonder of the living world. Her work has been published in the anthologies Common Threads, Dawn Horizons, Remember When, Ohio Bards, Poets of the Promise, Harmonic Verse, and Botticelli. Her work is supported by a grant from the Greater Columbus Arts Council.
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