The grave shared by Annette and Philip and the flowers appearing for them and the four of us who remain. I was happy for the warm awareness of closeness-but not closure-and satisfaction with the beauty of the flowers in place on the plush, green grass that now overlays the grave, with peonies everywhere else beginning to open. There were no tears as all that unfolded. One rose was red in remembrance of him, four white roses represented our three living children and me, and then there was a yellow daisy, remembering Annette and her love for almost anything yellow, including butterflies. I had just laid fresh flowers on her grave, which shares the space above the grave of our son, Philip, buried there nearly 52 years ago. Within all those experiences in all of those many settings, I cannot recall her identifying even one black butterfly, but a week ago today, May 28, another Saturday, the nine-month anniversary of the indelible day when she had died, which had been a Saturday, too, a black butterfly showed up. When she and I ate a meal at one of the abundant, beautiful sites that surround Portland, she would surely comment about any butterfly she saw, naming it and wishing that lovely being would land near her so that she could enjoy its company. Several minutes passed before I could see to drive and continued coming and going as I drove on the empty country road I had known so well since childhood.Īnnette adored butterflies, a gift her father had given her, although she eventually chose to see butterflies flying freely rather than pinned, dead, into a display. It was depressing, that tear drought, as if something dark and sinister stood in the way of what should be normal affect after losing the one who had been closest and dearest to me for more than 64 years.Įven then, as I stood and waited at her grave, lone, in silence broken slightly by the distant sounds of giant combines harvesting corn on that October Sunday afternoon, no tears came, nor as I said goodbye and slid into my car to drive away, when mere feet from Annette’s grave, a dazzling monarch butterfly flew past within a few inches of the windshield and instantly shattered the dam holding back tears that came unrestrained and wild. There had been none, not once since her death six weeks earlier. In stock psychological terms, I suppose I should have been seeking closure. Last October 10, a Sunday, the day after our children and I had emptied the remains of Annette’s body into an unremarkable opening in the ground of rural southwest Iowa, following with handfuls of the ordinary, rich black soil that had been piled beside it, and closing it with the sod cap that remained, I returned alone to that pretty, bruised spot.
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