Butterfly On The Door

There's a butterfly on the door tonight. Its arrival was sudden, but its meaning is unmistakable.

Its scarlet wings are vibrant and bright, yet also, somehow, ethereal against the stark wooden door.  Their shimmer defies the dim light of the corridor.  The eyespots on the tip of its wings are an iridescent blue edged in purple.  They are mesmerising and I get the sense that they are watching me.  I stand for a brief time meeting their gaze.

I push open the door. 

You are lying between fresh white sheets. You are still.  Silent and serene, surrounded by your nearest and dearest.

I sit with them.

I am one of them. 

Gentle banter breaks out between us, your favourite tunes are the backdrop to our quiet conversations.

The butterfly remains - silent - guarding the door against intrusion.

The melancholic sound of a clarinet arrives too soon, haunting the air like a waiting phantom.

A stranger stands on the shore. 

It is you. 

You are gazing out to sea.

You feel the soft sand shift slowly beneath your bare feet and step into the gently lapping waves. 

You step onto a restless, rippling path and move forward, drawn to the glowing silvery moon that appears to be balancing on the sea's edge. 

You don't look back.

Then you are gone and, but for our beautful scarlet sentinel, we are alone.

After the music has faded, we remain. We stand together, unsure of what comes next.

Moments pass before we open the door and leave.

As we move into the corridor, I reach out and gently touch the butterfly. 

The tips of my fingers press flat against the wings. 

They do not move. 

Slowly, I peel away the tape. 

It comes free in my hand.