A Butterfly on M Street: Chrysalis
There are specific types of flowers that gardeners can plant to attract butterflies and birds. Brightly colored, the butterflies dance over flox, coneflowers, spiderflowers, black-eyed susans, and daisy like flowers. Black with iridescent blue, yellow and black, the exotic coloring makes it almost impossible to remember that they started as ugly worms.
On a corner of M Street, someone owns a house with a small plot of land. The owner is either a prodigious gardener or hires a lawn service because the yard is an explosion of color from April to October. Flowers crowd the tiny lot in clumps and sprinkles of purples, oranges, and reds, tempered with cooler, calmer colors. It should have clashed but it worked for the small brownstone.
In the summer and spring, she drives out of her way to see the house when she comes home from work. On gray days, the colors brighten her mood. On days when the sun is shining and her work load is light, the flowers add to the day. It makes her nostalgic for something she has never had. A quiet home with its own little space in the world. She's not even sure she could garden without killing every plant in the yard, but her fingers itch to try. Every day she drives by the little house and contemplates the one she'll own one day. It's a remodeled version of the one she's been building since her childhood. Over the years, she's added to it and changed it, refining a detail here, simplifying a plan there, as her tastes changed. This year, she's added butterflies.
It's been over a week since she left Harm's apartment. Although she's tried to act naturally around him, she can't quite remember what their relationship was like before. Before Catherine and Adam added complications to a relationship that need simplifications. Before they saw each other naked. At that thought, she has to remind herself to concentrate on driving. Her skin, however, remembers what her mind has made taboo and phantom fingers, given presence by the air rushing through her car windows, brush over the skin of her arm.
She hasn't asked if Catherine forgave him. She doesn't want to know. It's selfish and she knows it, but she can't help hoping that Catherine won't let this slide. It's selfish because she hasn't talked to Adam yet. She knows he won't forgive her. And if she's honest with herself, she knows that she wouldn't respect him if he forgave her her sins.
In truth, she hasn't decided if she's going to tell him about that night. It would only hurt him and it wouldn't serve any purpose. She already knows it's going to end and that she's going to be the one to end it. She's going to miss him. More, she's going to miss the possibilities of them. As she pulls onto M Street, she stares at the little house on the corner and regretfully puts away her dream again.
The light changes as she drives up to the corner. She coasts to a stop in front of the house and sighs. Resting her chin against the steering wheel, she studies the brick structure. She tries not to picture herself in its rooms, cooking dinner or sitting at the table. She tries not to imagine bright, happy children wreaking havoc in the small yard. She tries not to picture Harm standing on the front porch with her as their children leave for their first day of school. But all that is like trying not to imagine a pink elephant. Say the words and the images appear.
As her car idles at the curb, a butterfly form the yard flies over the hood of her car. She watches the yellow wings float over the red surface. She sighs and tracks the bug's progress. It's funny; she never classified butterflies as bugs before. They were distinct from their caterpillar counterparts in her mind. The life was comprised of distinct phases: bug, chrysalis, and butterfly. It's hard to think of the thing hovering over the flowers as something that was once ugly, but the fact remains.
The light changes again and she depresses her gas pedal, feeling lighter than she has in a week.
There are specific types of flowers that gardeners can plant to attract butterflies and birds. Brightly colored, the butterflies dance over flox, coneflowers, spiderflowers, black-eyed susans, and daisy like flowers. Black with iridescent blue, yellow and black, the exotic coloring makes it almost impossible to remember that they started as ugly worms.
On a corner of M Street, someone owns a house with a small plot of land. The owner is either a prodigious gardener or hires a lawn service because the yard is an explosion of color from April to October. Flowers crowd the tiny lot in clumps and sprinkles of purples, oranges, and reds, tempered with cooler, calmer colors. It should have clashed but it worked for the small brownstone.
In the summer and spring, she drives out of her way to see the house when she comes home from work. On gray days, the colors brighten her mood. On days when the sun is shining and her work load is light, the flowers add to the day. It makes her nostalgic for something she has never had. A quiet home with its own little space in the world. She's not even sure she could garden without killing every plant in the yard, but her fingers itch to try. Every day she drives by the little house and contemplates the one she'll own one day. It's a remodeled version of the one she's been building since her childhood. Over the years, she's added to it and changed it, refining a detail here, simplifying a plan there, as her tastes changed. This year, she's added butterflies.
It's been over a week since she left Harm's apartment. Although she's tried to act naturally around him, she can't quite remember what their relationship was like before. Before Catherine and Adam added complications to a relationship that need simplifications. Before they saw each other naked. At that thought, she has to remind herself to concentrate on driving. Her skin, however, remembers what her mind has made taboo and phantom fingers, given presence by the air rushing through her car windows, brush over the skin of her arm.
She hasn't asked if Catherine forgave him. She doesn't want to know. It's selfish and she knows it, but she can't help hoping that Catherine won't let this slide. It's selfish because she hasn't talked to Adam yet. She knows he won't forgive her. And if she's honest with herself, she knows that she wouldn't respect him if he forgave her her sins.
In truth, she hasn't decided if she's going to tell him about that night. It would only hurt him and it wouldn't serve any purpose. She already knows it's going to end and that she's going to be the one to end it. She's going to miss him. More, she's going to miss the possibilities of them. As she pulls onto M Street, she stares at the little house on the corner and regretfully puts away her dream again.
The light changes as she drives up to the corner. She coasts to a stop in front of the house and sighs. Resting her chin against the steering wheel, she studies the brick structure. She tries not to picture herself in its rooms, cooking dinner or sitting at the table. She tries not to imagine bright, happy children wreaking havoc in the small yard. She tries not to picture Harm standing on the front porch with her as their children leave for their first day of school. But all that is like trying not to imagine a pink elephant. Say the words and the images appear.
As her car idles at the curb, a butterfly form the yard flies over the hood of her car. She watches the yellow wings float over the red surface. She sighs and tracks the bug's progress. It's funny; she never classified butterflies as bugs before. They were distinct from their caterpillar counterparts in her mind. The life was comprised of distinct phases: bug, chrysalis, and butterfly. It's hard to think of the thing hovering over the flowers as something that was once ugly, but the fact remains.
The light changes again and she depresses her gas pedal, feeling lighter than she has in a week.
