You'll Be In My Heart
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Father... those butterflies in the park. Haven't you seen them? They're so beautiful. One had blue wings and glowing, pearly white speckles, Father. And the other one, the other one was black and had these sapphire lines. They were my favorite butterflies. They were so beautiful, Father. But they weren't as pretty as the butterflies in your stories. They were even prettier than that.
And I saw her. The lady in your stories. When I got home from school, Father, I went past that garden. The one that's just like a park, with paths and benches and sphere lights that glow at night. There, I saw the young lady sitting on a bench. Those two butterflies were fluttering all around her.
I was... amazed, Father. Those butterflies were so beautiful. I couldn't believe my eyes. And I followed them to the young woman. That was when I realized that she was the woman you always told me about. The woman in your stories, the bedtime stories that took me to sleep every night.
When I almost caught the butterfly, she grabbed my hand. Since you told me she was as scary as a witch, I was afraid, Father. But no, she was like an angel. She gently let my hand go and smiled. And she wasn't mute like you told me she was. No, she spoke to me. She told me not to hurt the butterflies. Maybe they were her only friends.
Oh, and she was beautiful, Father. Just like those butterflies. The woman asked me to sit next to her. She wore a gown, a white gown that reflected the sunlight, and she had brown eyes. Just like me and you, Father. She wasn't scary. She was so nice to me, and taught me to let the butterflies fly to my hand. She let me pet them gently. And then we talked to each other.
We were so much alike, Father. We both loved the butterflies, we both loved blueberry ice cream, and we loved poems. And, mostly, we loved art. Why, Father, would you tell me to stay away from her? I don't want to. She's so nice to me. There's nothing wrong with that, is there, Father?
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Do you remember my story, dear Son? About two butterflies, one blue with white dots, and one black with dark blue stripes? Ah, you must have forgotten them. When I first taught you about these, you were no more than four years of age. I remember that day, when you were tucked in your little bed, and you were under a light blue blanket. You were wearing your favorite pajamas with matching blue crow patterns. And your sweet brown eyes gazing expectantly at me. There was a small smile on your face. A quiet, innocent smile.
I missed telling you that story, dear Oblio.
Every sunset, there was always a lady who sat in a corner of the garden. When the skies turned a citrus orange, she would stay on the bench and wait for her two companions, the butterflies. No one knows about what this woman does with these butterflies after the sun sinks behind the horizon.
The nearby citizens don't know who she is. No one knows her name, her identity, her family, or where she lives. No one's ever talked to her. Not even a light conversation that didn't include names. Nothing. And when those citizens have to return to their families, as the sun is yet again pulled to the west, the lady disappears without a trace.
Well, one day, a man spotted her and accidentally thought of her as someone else. He said hello to her, and she raised a hand kindly without speaking. The man then spread the word, telling others that he suspected the lady was mute and unable to speak with words.
Little by little the citizens learned of this lady's two butterflies. A new myth surfaced, of her being able to speak with the insects. And only to those butterflies, and not to other people. And thus, the people spread more myths, that the woman was capable of black magic. And, ever since then, the people avoided her. No longer did anyone go to the garden-park, in fear of this mysterious young lady.
Oblio, this isn't like the other stories I've told you about. This isn't fantasy, not like the tales of Jack and his beanstalk, or the three little pigs, or the man in the moon, or dragons, or wizards. No, this story is true. The lady really did come to the park every sunset. I'm telling you this, dear Son, because I don't want you to wander every time you go home from school.
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Little boy, why are you here again? Run along home. Your father will be worrying about you if you get home late. I'm sure you've heard of what those other people have said about me. It's true that I'm lonely, because of what they speak of. But don't come and see me too often. Especially when you want to play with the butterflies who always accompany me. Or if you want to share your blueberry ice cream, or if you've written a new poem.
After all, you have your father. Go ahead and share your ice cream with him, and tell him about your new poem. Besides, I'm used to being alone. At least I have the company of more than just these two butterflies. Every sunset, I hear the sparrows feed their young, and the sound of the trees swaying in the wind, with the crickets' constant chirping as the night reigns on. To be honest, I prefer being alone. I don't want to burden you. Because one day, people will avoid you, simply because you talk to me so often.
I'm sure that one day you'll find a butterfly who will always follow you, no matter what. A butterfly that will be an eternal and loyal friend. Even if this butterfly must reincarnate, only to be with you. I don't want people to spread rumors about you because of my presence. One day, not even your friends will want to talk to you. Go home, little boy. I also need to return. It's time for these butterflies to sleep.
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Father, I couldn't find those two butterflies this sunset. Maybe they were sleeping, out there in the cold night, somewhere too far for me to reach. Maybe they've rested their wings without realizing it, and left their eggs, to hatch into little caterpillars. And then those caterpillars would hide themselves in little white silk pods, fragile, and later into even more butterflies.
Neither could I find that lady, Father. No one was in the garden-park that time. I've already searched everywhere. The benches, the paths, even the little pond where the frogs croak. I've already brought a lot of blueberries in my snack box and didn't eat them at school, because I had wanted to share with her. I had wanted to enjoy her favorite food with me. Father, is she mad at me? Is she unhappy because I've always visited her? Do my comings make her uncomfortable? If she really is angry, I can't understand why. She's never been angry at me before. She's always smiled whenever I came to see her, kissed my forehead every time I left her. She's never said anything about her feeling annoyed with me.
Well, she's warned be before. She told me not to see her anymore. She liked being alone. But I didn't believe her. I was sure that she didn't want to see me because of another reason. She always looked so happy whenever she saw me, and whenever I saw her. When I ran to her, she would spread her arms for me to hug her. I know how she had always waited for me after school.
Father, I miss those butterflies. And I want to meet that lady again. I hope you're not angry if I see her again. I really loved playing with her and her butterflies. It was so much more fun than playing jump-rope with my friends at school. Father, are you sure that you've never known that lady? That you never knew where she came from or where she lived? Please, if you know where she lives now, take me there, Father.
Please.
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Oblio, dear, take a look outside our back garden. It's filled with tiny, colorful butterflies. Look, son, their wings are glowing. But there are three butterflies, bigger than the rest. And that one, the biggest of all, is the most beautiful, isn't it? I've never seen such a pretty butterfly. The way its white wings could match with those little, hazel-brown patterns. The way it flaps its wings slowly and gently. So elegant... just like your mother.
Look, you're teary-eyed just to watch. You're happy, aren't you, Oblio, seeing all these butterflies? You missed them, didn't you? Play with them now, Oblio. I'm sure they'll be happy to play with you too.
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No. I don't want to play with them. Look at that largest butterfly. It is the most beautiful one. But, its colors are exactly the same as the lady's gown and eyes, the last time I saw her. That young lady, Father. I don't want her to turn into a butterfly just so she can accompany me. I don't care if the other butterflies leave me, as long as that young lady is still there for me. I don't want to play with those butterflies. I want that beautiful young woman, Father. Just that woman.
I want my mother.