It was, after all, one of those summer mornings where the world seemed to hum with potential, buzz with promise and possibility. Children ran up the street, their joyous screams carried on the warm, moist breeze blowing off the nearby ocean. Men wiped beads of salty sweat from their brow, bending down to crank old mowers one more time, finally succeeding in bringing their burly motors to life. Women hunched over beds of pink and yellow, gently coaxing and coddling each fragile bud and root. A series of moments you wished you could collect and save in a jar, like the fireflies momentarily grounded by inquisitive kids.
But, like those imprisoned flutterers, you must let moments go or risk ruining them and losing them forever.
So, after draining the last drops of coffee from my oversized mug, I simultaneously pulled the curtains closed and opened my laptop, its bluish glow practically lost in the brightness still seeping in through the windows, sneaking through every crevice and crack. Whether because of some unconscious level of intuition or just simple chance, I almost immediately heard the enclosing sound of the motorcycle, becoming less of a purr and more of a harsh rumble, blocking out every other sound in my proximity.
As the reverberations stopped in my ears and my hearing returned to normal, I heard a different rumble and purr approach the door. Voices. Those of a man and woman I immediately recognized, ones that only sound complete when they are in unison with each other.
"Are you seriously using the butterfly-in-a-jar metaphor? Isn't that kind of, like, old at this point?"
Kate scowls as she jumps, her brain processing the invasion of her privacy just milliseconds too late to not be startled by the unexpected questions. By the time she swivels around in her desk chair, Stephanie is already plopping down on the plush, dark burgundy couch in the corner of the study, working her thumbs through the self-inflicted holes in her sweater. Her brow suddenly furrows as her lips purse with an internal question.
"Is that a metaphor?" She asks after several seconds, raising her thumb to her mouth. Kate cringes as she hears the horrible crunch-and-rip sound of Stephanie's nail biting. "I can never keep any of those things straight."
"It's symbolism," Kate responds dryly, tightening her mouth into a thin line. "And, no, it's not…old. It's…" She struggles to argue around all of the examples of 'jarred captivity' that are suddenly bubbling up in her mind: butterflies and fireflies and dragonflies…hell, even frogs sometimes. Exasperated, she throws her chair back around, her hand violently landing on the mouse. "They're fireflies. Not butterflies. Completely different."
beds of pink and yellow, gently coaxing and coddling each fragile bud and root. A series of moments you wished you could collect and save in a jar, like the fireflies momentarily grounded by inquisitive kids.
But, like those imprisoned flutterers, you must let moments go or risk ruining them and losing them forever. – Note: Hackneyed?! Change?
Kate watches the blinking cursor on her screen, angry at herself for not being able to come up with something more original. Who told her she could write? What made her think she could actually do this? She doesn't have much time to stay within her own thoughts, though, because soon she is hearing a less-judgmental, more-genuine version of her doubts brought to life.
"You write? Since when?"
"Since now," Kate responds with a little more bite in her voice than she wants. Taking a deep breath, she scans the paragraphs on the various pages before her, reading and rereading them. "I had a therapist once who recommended trying journal writing as a means of dealing with…well, what it is we do, but I couldn't do that. So I'm trying my hand at fictionalizing all of it."
Opening the door, I am both relieved and exhausted, happy and exasperated, to see the flowing red hair and darkly piercing blue eyes that respectively define the two individuals sauntering up the walk, their faces serious as they quietly bounce words back and forth but their eyes gleaming with smiles. Smiles because they are both still here, still alive, still with each other. And they, more than probably most of us, live in fear of losing each other because they still live in hope of finding that day, that time, when everything will be alright and they can finally be
A squeal echoes through the cavernous room, a sign that Stephanie has finally processed fully what Kate said minutes ago. Kate can't help but roll her eyes: Stephanie is always a little slow on the uptake, not because she is dumb, but, on the contrary, because she always seems to have so many different thoughts going through her head that she can't ever focus on just one long enough to decipher it. "Oooo...so you mean this story is about you? Us?" Stephanie is across the room in two bounds, suddenly behind the seated woman. Kate's chair starts to vibrate slightly from her companion's unintentional bouncing as she reads over her shoulder. "Oh…you are totally talking about Dick and Bar-"
"Who's saying what about us?"
Dick strides into the study, a raised eyebrow on his face and a cup of hot cider in his hand, as indicated by the immediate smell of spiced apples wafting around the room. A smile reluctantly breaks across Kate's face as she views Stephanie's amused grimace, knowing exactly what the girl is mocking: the sweater on display in front of them, complete with tiny snowflakes and a line of stately red reindeer.
"I'm shocked you found that sweater, Dick," Stephanie states, leaning her elbow onto the back of Kate's chair. "Elves are usually a little smaller than you, aren't they?"
Dick just turns his eyes to glower at Stephanie, much the way a big brother would look at a petulantly annoying little sister.
"Hey!" Barbara shouts, affronted. "I bought that sweater for him. It is from the Armani 'Classics' collection."
"Well that explains it," Kate mumbles, trying fruitlessly to refocus on her task at hand.
"What was that, Kate?" Barbara inquires, staring daggers at Kate for a moment before arcing her eyes back toward Dick, who now sits in an oversized leather chair, sipping his cider.
"Oh, it's definitely a classic. There's no mistaking that," Stephanie mutters in a tone low enough to ensure her sarcasm but loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.
"Ok, ok," Barbara throws up her hand, tilting her head to the side as she regards Dick. "Maybe it is a little too…Christmas-y. But it looked good on the mannequin in the store."
Pouting just a little, she slides into the upholstered chair diagonal from where Dick sits.
"And it surely looks good on Mr. Grayson here, don't you think, Babs?"
Tim strolls into the room and the conversation, joining in the way only he seems to ever be able to do – like he's been there all along. He drapes an arm loosely over Barbara's shoulder, wiggling his eyebrows playfully at Stephanie over her head.
Part of Kate wants to tell Stephanie and Tim that it is time to grow up, that they need to stop making stupid jokes and teasing everyone. But the other part of her never wants that to happen: as long as they keep that attitude, that lightheartedness, maybe they will never find themselves in the predicament that she often finds herself. Overstressed and underwhelmed, so used to the job that she doesn't even realize how much things affect her until she feels the knots in her back and sees the dark circles under her eyes.
"…oh you know how he is. He loves to just roll in here five minutes before dinner, acting like he doesn't care and he just wants to eat."
Barbara's voice. She can only be talking about one person: Jason.
"Yeah, he knows we know he cares, and we know he knows we know he cares, so I don't know why he just doesn't stop it with the charade, you know?"
There is a shared moment of slight confusion as everyone in the room comprehends Stephanie's words, which were more riddle than statement. And, because of that, after the confusion comes a shared moment of laughter.
A call to attention comes in the form of someone clearing their throat. All eyes turn toward the door, where Alfred stands with a tiny upturn to the corners of his mouth, the most respectful and restrained of smiles.
"Dinner will be served in the main dining room in ten minutes. Master Bruce will join all of you there."
"Thanks, Alfred," Dick replies, rising from his chair. "And you'll be joining us, right? I doubt Bruce will take no for an answer if precedent is any indicator."
Alfred bows his head ever so slightly, his raised cheeks over his smile gaining a slight twinge of pink. "Of course, sir."
"Well, I don't know about you guys," Dick begins, taking slow steps toward the door, "but I'm going to the dining room now. To make sure I get a good seat."
"Yeah, right," Tim chimes in, straightening from where he was leaning against Barbara's seat. "You just don't want people seeing you pick the raisins out of your rolls and stuffing."
"Can't eat your fruits and veggies like a good little boy, uh Grayson?"
"Jason!"
Stephanie jumps up and throws her arms around the man with the permanent half sneer standing in the doorway.
"Hey, Steph," Jason responds in a voice that is rough yet oddly soothing, like water gurgling over jagged rocks. Setting her down, he slaps hands with Tim, who extended his arm to him.
"Good to see you, man," he says, allowing just a tiny grin as Tim pulls him in for a hug.
After welcomes are made all around, everyone begins filing out of the room and down the hall, a cacophony of voices bouncing off the old walls of Wayne manor.
"You coming, Kate?" Stephanie pauses in the doorway, leaning half in, half out.
"Yeah, I'll be there in a second."
faces serious as they quietly bounce words back and forth but their eyes gleaming with smiles. Smiles because they are both still here, still alive, still with each other. And they, more than probably most of us, live in fear of losing each other because they still live in hope of finding that day, that time, when everything will be alright and they can finally be
As the voices peter out, Kate finds herself finally alone, once again rereading her final paragraph. Silence – it should be every writer's friend, but, at least in this case, it is not: she feels more vacant and hopeless than even before Stephanie snuck up on her earlier. And it is in that moment that she realizes that Stephanie and Tim are not the only ones that need the stupid jokes and the humor, that Dick and Barbara are not the only ones that deal with desire and longing, that Jason and Bruce are not the only ones who struggle with distance and trust: every one of us want and need and deal and struggle with all of that.
And just like that, the answer to her ending comes into view, replacing that blank, flashing cursor in her mind, leading her to make a few final adjustments to her story.
faces serious as they quietly bounce words back and forth but their eyes gleaming with smiles. Smiles because they are both still here, still alive, still with each other. And they, just like all of us, live in fear of losing each other because we all still live in hope of finding that day, that time, when everything will be alright and we can finally just be what we are. A family.
Closing her laptop, she walks to the door, smiling as she follows the scents of herbs and cranberries and pumpkin and sounds of everyone who has come to define who she is.