The Birds and the Butterflies

By Clare Hill The Birds and the Butterflies

The Birds and the Butterflies
The bird lies on the pavement, its’ coffee brown gaze milkily unseeing in this world, its’ wings still and stiff.

“Mommy, there’s a dead bird, come and see, it’s got its’ eyes open and everything, gross!” my seven-year-old son exclaims, pulling my hand in order to show me the flightless body of this feathered friend.

“Okay, come on, you’ll be late for school!” I say, anxious to get away from this victim of natures’ whim. We start to walk away, and he glances back once, not wanting to leave the poor, dead bird exposed in its’ somehow vulnerable nakedness.

“Can’t we bury it, mom? It won’t go to heaven if it’s not given a proper burial.” so says the seven-year-old sage. The Birds and the Butterflies “No, we haven’t got time for that, darling. Anyway, who has been filling your head with that rubbish? Of course it will go to Heaven, its’ spirit will fly there. Birds don’t go to church, do they? That doesn’t mean that they won’t go to Heaven!” I say, groaning inwardly as I can feel a conversation of epic proportions looming on the horizon. I’m not ready for this, I’ve prepared for the sex questions, not the death ones! I feel like I’ve been revising for the wrong exams, and haven’t realised until I have sat down in the draughty school hall to take the paper. The Birds and the Butterflies

“But mom, people are supposed to go to church every Sunday to worship God, and we don’t go, we only go to the garden centre. James says that makes us sinners, and we’ll go to Hell!” He exclaims, worriedly ruffling up his briefly neat hair with fiddling fingers. The Birds and the Butterflies Honestly, I think that therapists have a lot to thank the school playground for, neuroses flourish like weeds in the fertile ground of the kids’ imagination, fertilised by, well, the horse manure that some kids seem to absorb from their beleaguered but well-meaning parents. I remember the days of my youth, whispered truths on the playground, which turned out to be mostly misinterpretations of something that a busy parent has said to a curious, relentlessly questioning child.

“No, darling, I’m sure God doesn’t mind if we don’t go to church, as long as we love each other, and the world that he created for us. There wouldn’t be enough room for everyone to go to church, would there?” I really don’t want to be having this conversation!

“Mom…” he says, hesitantly, twirling his fingers in his hair, which by now resembles a bird’s nest.

“Yes, darling, what? Walk a bit faster, will you!” I smile sweetly at him through clenched teeth. I can see the other mothers, the organised ones, already coming out of the school gates, their offspring entrusted to the school system on time every morning without fail. The Birds and the Butterflies “I don’t want you to die! I’ll be here without you, and I’ll never ever see you again.” He says, tears in his clear green eyes.

“Everyone has to die, sweetheart. Anyway, I like to think of it as just leaving my body behind. I won’t need it any more, you see, I’ll be a spirit. I’ll still be around, you just won’t be able to see me.” I really, really, really don’t want to be having this conversation! The Birds and the Butterflies “But I won’t know that you’re there! It won’t be the same.” He wails.

“You’ll feel me, in your heart and in your mind, you will know that I’m there. I’ll always be there for you, looking out for you, because I love you.” I’m through the gates now, practically dragging the poor little inquisitive sod!

“People shouldn’t die, it’s too sad!” he says, looking at me with frightened eyes.

“I tell you what,” I say, stopping and crouching down in front of him, so that I can look him in the face, “Lots of bad things have happened to me, and sometimes it makes me feel sad. But, yesterday on the way back from school, I saw this beautiful bright pink butterfly, like nothing I’d ever seen before. It was a perfect little thing, and it was perfect because it was so happy, I could feel the joyous rhythm it felt with every flutter of its’ pretty wings. Now, a butterfly has a very short life, but I bet that little pink butterfly enjoyed his, soaring and swooping down by the stream and over the field.”

“Bad things happen to butterflies, some people catch them in nets and put big pins into them,” he says. Why do they teach them this stuff at school?

“Yes, but the butterfly doesn’t think about that. He just tries to enjoy the good things in his life, and copes with the bad times when they come. That’s what you need to learn to do, my little man. Stop being such a worrywart!” Hurrah! We’ve finally reached the classroom door, I see with guilty relief.

“Bye, mom, love you! Don’t forget to put the new inner tube in my bike while I’m at school!” he says as he disappears in a crowd of boisterous, bouncy children. The Birds and the Butterflies As I walk away, I hope that he takes heed of what I’ve said. Whatever my private dreams for him are, whether I want him to be a doctor, a pilot, or an inventor, there is one common thread to my hopes for my son. I want him to be happy, and to be able to enjoy his life, come what may.
The End
© Clare Hill 2002

From unpublished work "Crazy Lady (Without The Cats)"

My e-book is available from Chipmunka Publishing. Here's the link. Living Without Marbles For extracts from both works visit www.clarehill.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk

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