butterflies

There was a little girl who loved a field. She cut through it on her way home from school every day - third grade. That made her about nine or so. The girl liked school very much. Well. Maybe not recess or gym.

You know this girl or at least your own childhood experience of her. Odd. Oddly dressed, all over-sized in a clash of color. Her unique fashion accent was the blue nylon scarf tied about her throat. Tightly. The same one. Every day. She thought it looked pretty, though it hardly matched the rest of her wardrobe which overall, hardly matched. Ironically, this called much attention to her in ways that surely no one wanted or needed attention.

She pulled back her hair in a ponytail, tight again, at the nape of her neck. This, in an effort (which failed) to conceal the score of angles collected there stubbornly. She'd break down and cut them out every so often. Then just a bald spot remained at the back of her head.

She was clean though. And the teacher's liked her very much. Most of the other kids did not. Especially since all the teacher's did. All of them. Even the horrible mean ones. This helped the little girl's P.R., not at all.

Still, the little girl was not unhappy. Not really. She didn't mind ... not exactly ... not having friends. Mostly, she just wished they'd not pick on her so, and just leave her alone. Or so she told herself and truly, she did like to be and play by herself. She had a world between her ears, clean down to her heart that was lovely and showed good signs of growth. At times, she felt suspended there; just shy of the ground and leaving not a single footprint ~ blissfully forgotten or ignored by gravity. Thus, granted a private space to dream and spin in gentle orbit around some far and other star.

The field she cut through was not a practical short cut. Rough terrain and high weeds made the going rather slow. But it was a field and she was nine. Reason enough. The butterflies loved the field as much as she did. And indeed she did, despite the stickers in her knee highs - the long, pointed kind that burrowed their way through sock weave like barbed, darning needles. More than a few had taken up permanent residence. Finally, none of her socks were comfortable anymore.

That didn't matter so very much. The field was private and long and smelled wonderful. The scent of something she could almost - but not quite - remember. Parts of the field were clearer and not so densely populated with weeds. Lots of butterflies there and on this particular day, three boys.

Her stomach rolled when she saw them and by instinct or survival tactic, she crouched in the weeds and began busily examining the newer stickers in her socks. She was scared, but curious too because she saw glinting glass and nets. She didn't want to be see. She VERY MUCH didn't want to be seen. While mulling over ways to get herself out of this potential disaster, she snuck furtive glances at their activities until the dreaded,

"HEY!"
"Oh ... hey! Look who's here!"

And so she was met with a unanimous greeting of insults and name calling. Something she never got used to. She felt more than heard them. The words settled at the base of her spine and between her shoulder blades. Then too, there came that feeling that often accompanied such onslaughts - creepy, so the back of her neck tingled as if there were someone or something there; behind her.

HEY! Ah, come here puppy puppy! Here, you scrap dog."

She wanted to run but sometimes neither fight nor flight do much good. She knew better than to run. She was pretty sure the odds were in their favor and she'd be overcome. She'd learned as well that for some reason, once you run your pursuer seems almost obligated to do ... something to you when you are caught. It's frankly awkward to catch something then just stand there; hands in pockets. The something they do to you usually hurts.

So, she didn't run. She followed instructions and hoped for the best.

"Come here."

The boys had chased down several butterflies and screwed tight the lids on jelly jars against the air. Here, where the butterflies gathered, the weeds had thinned to crab grass, clover, wildflowers. So, she knelt down into the kinder ground cover at a reasonable distance from where they sat.

They said nothing to her, so she just watched. One of the boys took a butterfly from a jar and held its body harshly while he stroked its wing. She forgot herself in this and asked,

"Can I pet it too?"

At the sound of her own voice, she flinched; wished she'd kept her mouth shut even before their response began:

"What? You idiot! Oh my God! IDIOT! Aw god, you moron! What a moron! I'm not pettin' the frickin' thing! JEEE ZUS God!"

It had a chorus effect, the name calling. It met in a long crescendo and when it finally died down, between gasps and faded giggles, the boy with the butterfly said,

"I ain't pettin' it, I'm wiping the dust off its wings. See?"

He held up a finger, and she could see; powdery, with a slight shimmer. Too luminous really, to be called dust.

"Why?"
"Cuz without the dust they can't fly no more you moron. Wanna do one?"

She shook her head; arms hung limp at her sides. Her forehead bloomed with what she called her "thinking lines," then she said,

"How come though? How come do you wipe it off? Why do you ... I mean, what do you do with the butterflies then ... after?"

The boy looked hard into her. A humorless gaze from which she couldn't pull her eyes away or remove herself at all. Not until many years later.

"Nothin'. We don't do nothin' with 'em. We leave 'em here."

After awhile, the boys lost interest in the little girl and the butterflies. They went on their way but she sat where she was, very still and quiet, watching the butterflies for quite some time - both those that flew and the few the boys had touched, crawling about the dirt and lower grasses. Their wings, clean as fresh-washed slate. Dusty memory of flight left on the fingertips of a few boys and the pant legs where they wiped their hands.