Лаура Миллер - My Butterfly

Jules, I’m sorry I didn’t find my way to you faster.

My eyes follow over the words again I have written to the love of my life, knowing she’ll come across them one night as she sits next to an empty chair. The words in the letter aren’t anything I haven’t already said, but my hope is that they will remind her of some things after the good Lord takes me home.

A deep breath fills my lungs, and then I feel it escape past my lips in my next exhale. I just want her to know that I love her and that I’ll be waiting for her. And I want to remind her to live, to live each day just like she always has — full.

I reread the last piece of the letter:

I know I’ll be there with her, just like every night before, as she writes her life’s story in her journal and we watch the sun escape back into the lake. The only difference then will be that I won’t be right beside her. Instead, I’ll be watching her from above.

“Daddy,” I hear my oldest say as she enters my room. “How are you doing?”

My thoughts are put on hold, as I quickly turn over and lay into my lap the letter to her mom.

My little girl, who’s not so little anymore, makes her way over to me and kisses the bald spot on my head. She has a worried look on her face, but I know she doesn’t think I can tell. She tries to wear her pain on the inside. She always has. It’s the trademark of the oldest sibling, I think. She smiles and speaks in this calm and upbeat kind of way. But I’m her father. I recognize the hurt in her eyes. I only wish I could make it disappear.

It’s hard when your children get older and a simple hug or reassuring word can’t make the monsters or the fear of the dark simply disappear. Somewhere in the course of life, children struggles morph into adult ones, and the pain becomes too deeply rooted for a hug or a word to cure anymore. But it’s life, I remind myself again. And we must go through all of it — the good and the not-so-good — to be with the ones we love — even if it is on the other side.

“I’m as good as I’ve ever been, my dear, now that you’re here,” I say to my daughter’s brave expression.

I smile and stretch out my arms to hug her, forever hoping that a hug can still heal even a small piece of her heart today.

“Mom said you haven’t been feeling well today,” she says and takes a seat in the chair beside my bed.

Her expression hasn’t changed. It’s calm and soft.

“Oh, your mom worries about me too much,” I say, with a gentle smile.

I watch her lips slowly rise at their corners.

“But dear,” I say and rest my creased palm on her own, delicate hand.

Her eyes meet mine.

“Your mom’s a strong woman,” I say and then pause.

I see her eyes turning sad as her poker face slightly falters.

“After all, she put up with me for fifty years,” I say.

Her eyes turn down as she laughs to herself. I secretly wish I could see her laugh more — see all my children laugh more. My children know my time here is coming to a close. They’re wrestling with the one certainty of life we all must face at some point. It’s not easy, I know. I wish I could heal them and erase their fears, but again, I know I can’t. But that’s why God made grandchildren, I guess. Aah, the blessing of grandchildren. They know not of life’s trials or its most hated foe. My grandchildren are wonderfully oblivious, and they still laugh. And I love their laughter. If it weren’t for them, I fear that there would be very little laughter in my last days.

“But take care of her — your mom — will you, dear?” I ask her when our eyes meet again. “Just come visit her when you can and bring your two, little ones, and tell Jackson and Abigail to do the same.”

She lets out a sad sigh and pushes her lips together. Then, a renegade tear escapes from her eye, and I reach up to wipe it away.

“I love you, Austin,” I say. “You’ve always been so strong, like your mom.”

She squeezes my hand and holds it tightly.

“I love you too, Daddy, and I will,” she says, slowly nodding her head.

Then, we hear a “mommy” echoing through the hallway. It’s one of her little ones. The voice sounds shaken but not life-threatened. It’s probably nothing a kiss and a Band-Aid can’t heal.

Austin rises from her chair, still holding my hand. Then, she kisses my head and rests my hand back onto the bed before turning to tend to her child. I watch her hurry to the doorway, but before she disappears into the hallway, I remember something.

“Austin,” I say, regaining her attention.

“Yes, Daddy?” she asks, as she turns around.

I gather the letter from my lap, carefully fold it twice and hold it out toward her.

“Will you put this in your mother’s journal?” I ask.

She hesitates, her eyes locked on the cream stationery.

“Sure, Daddy,” she says, walking back toward me.

I release the letter into her keeping and softly smile. She forces a smile too. It’s a knowing smile. It understands. I’m thankful and also saddened — only because I can’t make her hurt go away. It’s all a part of life, I tell myself. And I would tell her the same, except that she already knows.

“Mommy.”

We both hear the little voice calling from the hallway again.

“Go,” I say, smiling wider and nodding in her direction.

She glances at the letter pressed in between her soft fingers, and then she looks back up at me. I watch her take a deep breath, and I can tell she’s fighting back tears.

“Go, go,” I say, chuckling and shooing her out the door. “And bring him in here once you’ve made him all better.”

She smiles one, last time and then turns and exits the room, with the letter in her hand.

I rest my head back against the headboard behind me after she’s gone. I’m well aware that my time here is short, and there are no late check-outs when the Big Man calls you home. I know that, and anyway, I’m not looking for any. I’ve said my peace, and I’ve lived a good life — a full life, with my butterfly at my side. That’s all I ever wanted. And now, I have a new mission — to spend forever with her. Get to forever. Get to forever. Meet her at the gates of forever — do what I’ve got to do to meet her there, so she has someone there waiting for her, so she’s not alone.

I turn and reach inside the nightstand drawer next to the bed and pull out her photo.

“My Jules,” I whisper, as I clutch the old photo in both hands.

And suddenly, a silhouette appears in the doorway. I look up and then quickly shove the photo under my leg and fight back my tears. I can’t explain the tears. I’m at peace, but I guess it’s still hard knowing I have to leave her for a little while.

“I brought you some tea, dear,” she says, shuffling into the room.

I watch her make her way toward me, set the tea tray down onto the nightstand and then fall slowly into the chair beside the bed.

“Thank you, sweetie,” I say, meeting her eyes and gently smiling.

Her eyes are the same — the same eyes I remember from her pigtail days and her cut-off-jeans days and her eight-months-pregnant days. They’re soft and sexy and beautiful. I smile again at the thought. The only thing I didn’t see back then was just how loving they really are.

“Here,” she softly says, bringing the cup to my hands.

I notice her eyes lock onto the photo. A piece of it is sticking out, revealing the side of her young face. She acts as if she doesn’t see it, and she meets my eyes again and smiles.

“I love you, Will Stephens,” she says.

I take the tea cup in one hand and squeeze her soft, creased hand with the other. I look deep into her eyes then. I’m remembering all the moments that we loved and we cried and we loved so much that it made us cry. And I’m remembering all the hell we put ourselves through just to realize we should have been together from that very first moment. I love those moments, though. I love every one of them now. They’re our story now. Every mistake, every hurt, every joy, every longing — it’s ours, only ours.

“Jules,” I start to say, and for some reason, I just can’t get the words out.

I’m fighting back the tears in my eyes, and I’m remembering a lifetime of memories, and I just can’t get the words out to let her know how much love I have for her. I feel my lips quivering, and I quickly press them tightly together.

“I know,” she says softly. “I know.”

I search her eyes and let the air escape my lungs, as she buries her face into my hand near the mattress. I set the cup onto the nightstand’s surface and then place my other hand near hers. I can’t see her face, but I feel her tears falling wet onto my hand.

“I know,” she says again.

She buries her face deeper into both of my hands now and slides something hard in between my fingers. Then, she lifts her head and releases my hand, and my eyes fall onto a small, metal object.

“She kept you safe all these years,” she says, in almost a whisper. “I can’t come with you now…”

Her words trail off as I meet her gaze again. Pieces of her soft, gray hair have fallen near her face, and there are tears in her eyes. They make my heart break for her.

I squeeze the guardian angel, and then I rest my hand on top of hers again.