Epitaph of Butterflies
They say that butterflies are a symbol of how time swings past, how people begin to shift despite the intent not to, how people who once were the centerpiece of your life drifted away in the current. They say that change is the only constant, the sun at the center of life, with everything else meandering through as you hold out a red carnation; as you stand outside the comforts of your air conditioned, sterile house with the off white, nigh claustrophobic walls with your ginger friend.
They say that butterflies are filled with the colors of the flowers they polinate, similar to how your friends are filled with the colors of who you are and how you've changed their lives, how even the boy you passed on the street earlier today was filled with your poingiant colors. Your arms were full of flowers earlier today: full of gladioli, of pink and white chrysanthimums, filled with white and yellow and crimson roses. You'd held them close as you'd walked down Main street, burying your face in their scents and their colors; you look down at a small cut, between your ring finger and your middle.
They say butterflies cause hurricanes; every time one takes flight, the winds they leave behind bounce fragile leaves, bounce their old coccoon, bounce the lillies by the pond then bounce the roofs of couples halfway across the world. The dancing green beneath you is no stronger, swaying too and fro as if frantically waving goodbye to the sun, even while her navy blue sequin gown trails across the sky. Your friend always loved to bring you here, to trail you behind the violet signage whispering "Welcome to Everwood Park", to lead you through its twisting trails and to dine atop its grand hill of monarch butterflies. You know that's why you're here today. You spare a glance at the burnt-out city below, past the statue of Lady Morpho to where your brother, with his friends, is pouring quarters into the arcade machines at Roosevelt corner; They're probably laughing merrily, having a great time with leftover pocket change and trying to win that two-dollar, neon green, gigantic stuffed lemur for your cousin Patty.
They say butterflies, at least when formed from molten silver and on a fine chain, should only be given to people who are worth at least that much to you. You bend down and fasten the rainbow pendant around her pale neck, then cautiously situate the charm over the center of her loose black dress. Beside you, a priest hands you the remaining flowers: the gladioli, the pink and white chrysanthimums, and the white and yellow and crimson roses. You manage to place all of them into her cold hands before you step back to avoid getting her dress wet. The man of faith places his hand over the shoulder of your black suit; he is still warm.