JemG

The Way We Were

When I was young, my family and I used to rent a cottage on Halls Lake out near Haliburton. My brother and I loved to play out there. The summers were hot, and we spent days floating on the water, playing shuffleboard, and trying to catch monarch butterflies in washed out, peanut butter containers.
I never really thought about the consequences while we ran wildly across three properties to land a big sucker. I mean, we only ever caught the one. I remember hearing about the butterflies; if you touched a wing, it would die. But I guess they forgot to tell me that butterflies die in peanut butter containers too. It fluttered for a while, and I watched the orange and black wings grow slow, heavy, and I wondered how they could weigh so much.
My brother tapped on the plastic, as if the vibrations might wake it, as if it were sleeping at all. He made faces on the side of the container; the plastic distorting his features and making me laugh. Apparently, the butterfly didn’t appreciate our humour. It never woke up, though we expected it to at the arrival of fresh air when we unscrewed the lid; we blew into the container, thinking our breath could revive it and we would be able to watch it dance wildly into the wind above our heads.
We carried the jar to my mother and asked for reason. The look on her face told us we had done something wrong; something we ought to feel guilty about. Her forehead creased and the corners of her eyes drooped slightly. She looked ashamed, and my brother and I dropped our heads. She told us to go into the backyard and plant the butterfly among the flowers. We couldn’t bring it back.
We headed solemnly for the garden at the back of the cottage. My brother knelt down and began digging next to the smallest red flower. I opened the jar and reached gently into it. My young mind held hope that the butterfly might still wake, but I knew that once I touched it, its fate would be locked.
My brother was watching me, having finished digging, and gave me a vulnerable nod. It troubled me that he was just as scared by this as I was. But, despite his expression, I took one of the delicate, dark wings between my fingers and removed the butterfly from its containment. It was so weightless. Its wings were soft, and I brushed my fingers across the smooth colours; but there was no life left to feel.
After I placed it into the grave, my brother quickly covered it over and we stayed there for a moment, crouched over the mound in deep thought. We were responsible for a death and it was hard to take. It was a childish pact to make, but our days of butterfly catching were over. We walked away from the tiny mound in the garden, a part of childhood having grown up.

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mammamaia

very touching!... and well told...

i hope this childhood lesson inspired you to be a vegatarian, since all our fellow animals that humans eat are just as lovely [to their mothers, at least] as that butterfly was... and just as entitled to live out their natural lives, too, don't you think?

thanks for the story...

love and hugs, maia

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Hot Ice

A very sweet and touching story. Well written.
Thanks for sharing.

Hot Ice

Deadally

Alas, a touch unrealistic...as a child catching fireflies, what remorse did I have for them? None. They were for my personal enjoyment, and transferring the feelings of yourself with all of your experience doesn't feel right with the content

The structuring felt choppy, as well. And the story did not elicit much caring for the children at all. The butterfly was the absolute victim, and the children were made out to be barbarous monsters

I split hairs, and I actually enjoyed the thinking behind the story. I jsut feel it was a little too deep. A pet? The child might bury his pet, but he would not bury a bug

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kerpoe

I love the simplicity in your story. It is very touching and slightly woebegone. There is nothing more I can say about it. It sounds as if you are recounting your childhood in front of a child or relative or friend. BRAVO keep on scribbling along because I can rest assured that your writing will satisfy many more to come

Best regards,
Kerpoe

Queasy Dillo

First, let me say you communicate the child's point of view very well, even in hindsight.

As it happens though, the reaction of the mother and children seems a little overdone. Don't think I'm advocating cruelty to animals here, but it might have more impact if a family pet was involved instead of an insect (yes, butterflies are pretty; no, most people probably wouldn't be torn up if they were to see a dead one).

Just my $.02

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JemG

Hey, to everyone who has responded so far, thanks for being honest with me, I really appreciate it. It's the reason I post, so I can get decent feedback and turn my stories into something better. So, thanks again!

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Words are food. I'm a glutton.
- Alexa