Alone but not lonely

Butterfly loved the city. The push of activity, the pulse of the people and the hum of the city itself was a heady tonic on which she fed to keep memories of more unpleasant days at bay. The only daughter of hippie parents she was raised in a commune in the country, separate from the rest of the world and completely self sufficient. They grew their own food, raised their own livestock and made their own clothes. Butterfly was educated by the entire collection of eclectic, and often times eccentric, adults who came in and out of her life.

As a child she never wondered where the grown ups went when they left and didn't come back, simply assuming they were wandering the natural world and would find their way back eventually. As a result of her unconventional education, Butterfly could bake bread, sew and make her own pottery. She could carve utensils, skin a deer and slaughter the livestock when the time came. She was a voracious reader, pestering newcomers to see any books they might have had, and did her math with a stick in the dirt.

She knew every inch of land around her home, every tree and every rock. For hours she would play in the streams, among the ferns and inside hollow trees; alone but not lonely.

She saw her first automobile when she was 17, and marveled at the beauty of the long Cadillac, its glossy black paint reflecting her grinning heart-shaped face back at her. The man who climbed from behind the wheel looked alien to her in his cream colored linen suit, a straw Panama hat perched at a jaunty angle on his head; Butterfly had never seen anyone who looked like that. Her parents were much less excited to see the car, let alone the driver.

The basket Butterfly had made when she was eight was thrust into her hands, and she was instructed to gather blackberries from the bushes at the far edge of the commune just before her parents and the tall stranger disappeared into the house. She mumbled her annoyance at being left out under her breath, scuffing her bare toe in the dirt.

With an attempt at subtlety she looked around casually before hunkering down and running around the back of the house. She knew the adults would be in the kitchen, so she crouched down under the open window to eavesdrop. Her parents were making every effort to keep their voices down, while the stranger's voice carried out the window to echo through the pastures. The stranger was talking about things Butterfly had never heard of: freeways, imminent domain and money.

It was when her mother started to cry and protest being thrown out of their home that Butterfly threw caution to the wind and bolted through the back door, startling the three adults. Her hands were fisted at her sides and her whole body was vibrating with anger, which she directed at the stranger as she bombarded him with every ounce of verbal venom she could muster.

The stranger had stormed off after that, spinning the wheels of the car that Butterfly was no longer in awe of and pelting her and her parents with a spray of dirt and pebbles.

The month that followed was a blur that consisted of packing and moving. Friends Butterfly could remember seeing at home came in their own cars, loading up her family’s belongings or hauling away the livestock. Her first ride in a car was both exhilarating and terrifying as she watched her home grow smaller and smaller from the back window of a beat up Jeep.

When she laid her eyes on a city for the first time, Butterfly was afraid at first, having never seen so many people in one place or having heard such a cacophony of noise, and she cowered in the back seat until her parents assured her everything was fine.

It only took a few days for her trepidation to turn to curiosity and then there was no satisfying her sense of adventure. She spent her days wandering the streets, learning the alley ways and talking with strangers, however, with joy comes pain. Her romances ended badly, she had no common ground with those around her, and eventually her wounded heart hardened.

Her mother never recovered from being forced from her home, and she became withdrawn and silent, no longer the source of light and laughter as Butterfly remembered her to be. The pain and despair eventually became too much and one day she just didn’t wake up; no one could convince Butterfly that she died from anything other than a broken heart.

It was years later that Butterfly learned that the freeway and proposed shopping mall that would have stood where her bedroom had once been had never been built, and her heart dared to swell with hope. Calling in sick to work, Butterfly climbed into her silver Prius and made the long journey back to where she started.

She parked at the gate and walked, her sandals crunching on the gravel and the powdery dirt coating her toes. She crested the hill and her parent’s old house came into view, pulling a single sob from her chest as she stood frozen in place, surveying the land where she had grown up.

“Can I help you?” came a voice from behind her and she spun to stare at the tall man who stood a few feet away. His jeans were torn and faded, his shirt wrinkled and his boots worn; as old as his attire looked, his smile was as bright as a new penny.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t expect to find anyone here,” Butterfly said, smiling back at him as he walked slowly up to stand beside her.

“Neither did I,” he replied, adjusting his hat, “No one ever comes out here.”

“Well, I used to live here when I was a child. I thought it had been torn down long ago.”

The man had grown still, turning his head slowly to stare at her with wide green eyes. “You’re the girl who gave my father hell all those years ago.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement and Butterfly didn’t know whether to be flattered or mortified so she simply nodded. “He’d made me wait in the car when he came to talk to your parents that day, but I saw you creep around to listen at the window, and then I saw you yelling at him at the top of your lungs; I think you even threw a rock or two.” He was smiling broadly at the memory.

“I behaved badly that day, didn’t I?” Butterfly said sheepishly.

“Not at all, in fact watching you do that was the push I needed to stand up to him myself; that’s why this place was never demolished.”

“I don’t understand,” Butterfly said, her brow furrowed.

“I threw such a fit, and Father got so tired of hearing about this place, that he just signed the deed over to me.” He dug in his pocket and extracted a tattered document, which he held out to her. “I was hoping someday I’d have the opportunity to give this back to you.”