Because the grass isn’t growing, we haven’t seen a lawncare professional in ages. And so, up the front of our place is growing some kind of vine. It’s flowering. The flowers are nothing to write home about. They’re tiny white clusters and when they open up, you could fit the blossom inside any one of the “o”s you see here on the screen. They don’t have a particular smell.
But in the afternoon, when it’s so hot that you just want to get from your car to the front door before your shoes melt to the pavement? It’s full of moths and butterflies. Yesterday, both the Butcher and I were attacked by a monarch.
I haven’t seen a monarch butterfly in years.
I’m not sure the last time I saw a butterfly, period, that wasn’t flying outside my car or stuck to the grill of my car.
But here’s what’s weird. I saw that butterfly and I could remember, clear as day, being out back of the farmhouse outside of Nokomis, where my parents had a huge garden and tons of flowers and I could feel my hands cupped around a butterfly or moth, depending on which one I’d managed to catch, before I ran over to show it to my mom.
That’s what I felt, clear as day, the soft brush of butterfly wings against hands that were so small they could barely cup around it.
I kind of have a bad memory and sometimes it makes me sad because the Butcher will bring things up that I can’t remember happening and I’ll feel bad that I’ve lost that.
But sometimes I think it’s all up in there still, those memories, so fresh that you have to shake your head a moment to remind yourself that that was almost thirty years ago and you’re in Nashville and grown and not in the country and small. You just have to stumble across the right key to unlock them.