Hey Readers!
Last April I had so much with our Poet’s Time Travel, where I posted poems written by my teenage, younger self. Today, in theme with those posts, I’d like to share a short story I wrote a few years back. To be honest, I don't quite remember when I wrote it, but it was probably between 2015-2020.
I hope you like it!
Till Next Time,
Sarah
AKA A Busy Lady
Butterflies
By: Sarah Crowne
Sunshine filters through Rose’s sheer white curtains, casting shadows behind the paper butterflies suspended in front. Rose’s mother crafted the butterflies specifically for her, meticulously cutting them out of different colored paper before hanging them with transparent fishing line. They are yellow, blue, lilac and pink. Rose lies on her bed, taking in the cool breeze from her window as she watches the delicate paper magic dance. Hours pass. It feels like minutes.
Rose is sure it’s 1935, and she’s eight. Or maybe it’s 2010, and she’s 83. She can’t quite remember. It’s all the same.
She feels hot under the flannel sheet. Rose kicks the blankets off, then pulls them back up when she realizes she’s only wearing a hospital gown. From the corner of her eye, other shadows flicker, but not from the paper butterflies. Nurses pass in and out, bringing Rose bland hospital food, which somehow comforts her. Rose sits up to take a bite, noticing only now the young woman that sits by her bed. The woman is jabbering away. Rose has no idea who she is, but she’s always sitting right there. Usually, Rose finds her stories amusing. Except today. She can’t listen because of the lady in the corner. The lady wearing the white shear dress, just like the curtains. Butterflies swirl near her head. My mother. Rose thinks. She’s here!
It’s time. We’re going on a trip! Mama will take me. Rose’s heart thumps with excitement as she wonders what to pack. She scans the room. She has an empty purse, a vase with flowers, and a chocolate bar on her nightstand. Rose fixates on the chocolate bar while the woman by her bedside still jabbers.
Frank used to buy her chocolates. He bought her so many one winter she gained ten pounds! Where did Frank go? You’d think he’d come visit. He was her husband, after all. Rose fumbles over her thoughts.
Maybe he brought the candy? No, no. It wasn’t him. It was the jabbering woman. Rose remembers seeing her put it there right next to the framed pictures beside her bed just this morning.
Rose spits out the mashed potatoes. They’re too soggy. She sighs as she turns to look at the photos on her nightstand. Who are those people, anyway? They stare at her from behind the glass frame like a mystery she must solve. Pictures of a life she doesn’t quite remember.
Rose casts her eyes on the wedding photo. It doesn’t look like a wedding photo because there’s no white dress. But the jabbering woman always says, “You were such a pretty bride,” when she looks at it. Rose squints her eyes as she studies it. Is that me? A glimpse of a memory shines through. It is me. Rose remembers! She couldn’t afford a bridal gown, so she wore a brown skirt instead. Frank wore a brown suit. She’d never seen him so dressed up. He preferred his work boots and work clothes. He was the kind of man that kept his hands dirty and his heart clean.
Rose can almost smell his old cologne, spicy and musty, filling her senses as she lays her head on his shoulder to dance.
He was nothing like her father, who’d run off with another woman. Her mother, crippled by an accident, was recovering in the hospital when he left. Soon, Rose found herself and her older sister taking care of their younger siblings, alone, during a world war. That was when she learned to cook.
So much life happened in the kitchen.
Rose remembers the kitchen now, its crooked, checkered linoleum. She sees her grandmother’s old Hoosier cabinet, where they kept the sugar and measuring cups.
Frank liked a good Sunday dinner. But she stopped cooking when he died.
He died. Rose feels the pit of her stomach drop like she’d just gone down the loop of a feared roller coaster.
Her eyes tear up, but she doesn’t cry. Instead, she stares at her mama in the corner of the room with the butterflies still fluttering above her head. Can’t the jabbering woman see her?
Rose shuts her eyelids. She tries to listen to the jabbering woman’s voice, but there is too much to think about. Her memories are coming back, all at once. They are motionless images, misplaced in the projector. Scenes out of order, which somehow make sense.
There was laughing, crying, worrying, and work. She remembers her grandma, who once tried to pay the milkman with a gold bar in 1931. That same grandma also washed Rose’s mouth out with Ivory soap when she cursed. Oh, if only her grandma could have heard her mouth later in life! Every sentence that Rose uttered seemed to summon a swear.
So much to remember, and then even more!
Bread lines and bombs. Gardens and cornfields. Dancing in the street to the Andrew Sisters. She adorned every kitchen, in every house, with ruffled curtains. The fridges were always different, though. White, Gold, Cream. She measured the decades by the color of each fridge.
Babies cried while diapers piled high. Tinsel, pretty paper, and hours spent making the perfect Christmas bows. Mops and dust rags. The diner, her waitress pad, the pencil behind her ear. New shoes, new dress, fresh set hair. Piano keys pounding on the bad days.
She didn’t want to hide from the world, but sometimes, the world was simply too hard. Frank threw her tranquilizers into the toilet in 1956.
Her mother was so young when she passed. So was Rose. Not a child, but too young to lose a mom. Especially when she’d just become one herself.
She opened her eyes, exhausted by her life. The jabbering woman has stopped talking now. She stares at Rose, deep in thought, then leans forward. A single tear sheds from the woman’s eyes. Rose feels it on wet her skin as the woman kisses Rose’s forehead. Then, the woman leans back in her chair and stares out the window as if she’ll find something she lost there.
Rose feels her mind spark, like a bursting star only she can see. The memory is alive. The woman is her daughter.
Rose stares at the woman, but only sees the girl she used to be. She sees her little girl with bright blue eyes that now sparkle under the florescent light. Rose remembers the little girl’s smile and the way her once tiny hands once held onto to Rose’s when they crossed the street. Rose loved her more than the girl could know. How could she know? Rose told her she hated her once. Rose didn’t mean it, of course. She didn’t know why she said the things she said or did the thing she did. She’d wanted more for the girl. But she knew nothing but tough love, and tough love was an excuse. She’d been trapped by her own nightmares, the ones she didn’t speak about. Her traumas, like ghosts, invaded her mind, heart, and spirit, keeping her bound to chains she couldn’t seem to escape from.
The girl didn’t deserve it.
And yet, here she was, loving, assuring. Forgiving.
Rose didn’t think she deserved that.
But something about the way her own mother now smiled at her from the corner of the room made her realize it was all going to be ok.
“Don’t you just love those butterflies?” Rose spoke, crashing the silence. Her daughter sat up straighter, surprised by her mother’s sudden speech.
“What butterflies, Mom?” she asked, eyes curious, lips turned to a smile. The smile Rose remembered.
“The ones there. Right there. By my mother’s head. They’re so beautiful.” Rose pointed to her mother in the corner, even though she knew the girl couldn’t see her.
Then, Rose closed her eyes and thought, what a funny thing life is. Everyone holding on, running from the tidal waves, while butterflies flap their wings.
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If someone you know is struggling with Alzheimers, here is a great link with support.
I loved this !!!