In loving memory of Colleen Dewhurst (1924-1991) and Patricia Hamilton (1937-2023)
Sparkling rays beckoned a little butterfly forth, and it flitted up to an open window where bright petunias leaned up to the screen in search of the morning light. Unable to land on the flowers safely guarded inside the screen, the small creature flew here and there in the dappled light, soon finding relaxation in the luxurious blooms of an old hydrangea bush just outside the house.
From inside, an elderly woman with snow-white hair sipped her tea and considered the buzzing and the flitting of the small creatures outside.
"Every year they come here, as if they know exactly where to go and what to look for, that's what."
The woman considered the consistency of the insects' habits as she considered the consistency of her own. Long years of following the same routine had made her weary; for humans on this earth had no flowers to nest in as the bugs had. It was ever the same, never changing; walls and windows and stove and hearth.
But the little butterfly was well-aware of the doings and going-ons of this particular old woman; at least it was as aware as a small creature could be. For when it was a caterpillar, the spirit of an old friend had slipped into its being; seeing where it was and what time it was, the body and the soul bonded as one.
So the butterfly lived in the hydrangea that summer, and laid its eggs, and passed on. The old woman lived in her house and followed her routines, and she occasionally considered the small lives of the creatures outside her window. And every few years, a small special creature, an ant or a bee or a butterfly, would find a little home in the garden outside the house.
The ants and the bees and the butterflies didn't know time, but they could sense change. And they sensed a change in the old woman; her body becoming tired and weary in this life. And the spirit was quite lost, as it drifted constantly and tried to find something that it couldn't quite name. One morning in the last springtime of her life, a butterfly slipped through an open door and flew to the woman's bed. It sat on her hand, and the woman's confused eyes watched it for a long time until she drifted to sleep.
And the little butterfly lived in the hydrangea that spring, and laid its eggs, and passed on. The old woman who lived in the house had forgotten her routines, and her spirit was tired, and she passed on. And in the moment of her passing, sparkling rays of light warmed her and a rush of gladness held her; she left the body she had used for so many years, and finally, again, her spirit was young and memories fresh.
The change of perspective was new but not frightening for Rachel Lynde. She could see everything – and nothing – all at once. She was everywhere – and nowhere – all at once. It was comforting and strange to feel every little thing, and to not be a part of anything at all. Without time, her spirit drifted towards the familiar. She saw a multitude of visions that assured her of her life's faith. She went backwards and forwards at will, from the distant past to the time she once called present.
And later, when the newness wore off and she settled into being, she wanted to find the spirits of those she once knew. When her will was felt by the spirits bonded to her, they came, and appeared to her in forms she recognized. Thomas Lynde, and several of her children, and others from different times in her life came to her in turn. There was mutual love, of course, but beyond that, it was difficult to communicate. They were there, but they existed on a different plane. And so after a while, they drifted away back to the other place.
Later, a little butterfly flew by Rachel's side and landed on her shoulder.
"Hello there, little creature! I remember you from my window, that's what! What are you doing here?"
Rachel suddenly felt at home in its presence, and her awareness shifted from out-there-beyond to right-here-beside.
After a moment, or perhaps several hundred, Rachel understood the change in the energy and looked up to see her longtime companion, Marilla Cuthbert smiling at her, her countenance shining with the radiant happiness she remembered from long ago.
"I was here all along, my old friend, looking after you. Back down there –" she motioned away and down, "you saw me as the butterfly, and now you see me as you remember me in life."
Sweetness and pathos filled the women's spirits as they rejoined each other.
"I missed you, Marilla." Thirty years of love and hurt spilled over in a single teardrop.
"I missed you too, Rachel." Thirty years of love and loneliness were healed by a single teardrop.
"I wasn't ready to go, and it hurt me deeply to leave you so suddenly, Rachel."
"I wasn't ready for you to go, and I was angry at you for a long time, Marilla."
"I know. And I watched over you to make sure you were alright."
"I know that now, and I think I knew all along. Thank you for being my very dearest and best friend, Marilla Cuthbert."
"Thank you for always remembering me and staying close to my heart, Rachel Lynde."
And so the two women found a home in their own shared vision, a little house with white walls, green gables, and a little garden out front.
And they sat there on the porch, drinking tea and catching up on lost time for all time.