Butterfly on the door

There's a butterfly on the door tonight.

Its red wings seem ethereal against the stark wooden door. Vivid - even in the dim light of the corridor. 

The eyes on the tip of its wings are an iridescent blue. 

They are mesmerising. 

It feels like they are watching me.

I stand and stare at it for a long time.  It wasn't there earlier but I know why it is here now.

I push open the door. 

You are lying, still - peaceful, serene, surrounded by your nearest and dearest.

I sit with them.

I am one of them. 

Gentle banter breaks out against a backdrop of your favourite tunes. 

The butterfly remains - guarding the door.

The melancholic sound of a clarinet drifts in the air.

A stranger stands on the shore. 

It is you. 

You are gazing out to sea.

You feel the sand shift beneath your feet and step forward onto the rippling silver path.

You walk slowly towards the glow of the setting sun. 

Then you are gone. 

We are alone, but for our colourful sentinel.

After the music has faded, we remain. We stand together, not quite sure what to do next.

Moments pass before we open the door.

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

My fingers press flat against the wings. 

They do not move. 

Slowly, I peel away the tape. 

It comes free in my hand.

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