The Last Pirouette

Short childhood story about my experience with a butterfly

The cold winter sun had just begun to shed its frosty coat, and my bare toes were longing to once again feel the crisp freshness of new grass beneath. Impatiently, I tugged my grandfather’s rough hand and stared up into his raspy face, willing him to hear the same song of summer which had been steadily increasing in volume the past week after having lain dormant for so long. For a second, I stood still; staring out the old, glass door that had taunted me incessantly for the last few months. At the base, almost apprehensively, a thin sliver of gold began to snake up from the door and towards my waiting toes. The gold spread and spread- filling the entire room- before finding its way to the corners of my mouth. For the first time since the first winter snow and cold glare of spring, I smiled. For- without a doubt- summer was finally here.

My feet seemingly had a mind of their own as they raced toward the crooked raspberry bush. Before long, my hands, too, had lost all rational links to my brain as they greedily grabbed at the fat berries hanging like limp, enticing dolls from the branches.

‘Pop!’ was the sound of the vivid, juicy blast that detonated in my mouth.

‘Pop! Pop! Pop!’ Three more raspberries suffered the same fate as their predecessor. I was just about to move onto my next victim when a whisper of colour flashed in the reaches of my vision. In the blink of an eye, the raspberry bush was forgotten and berries themselves freed from my grubby, juice-stained hands. Excitement seized my limbs and adrenaline was pumped into my veins as a wild, childish joy clenched my heart; for I had just glimpsed a butterfly.

To my young, innocent eyes, a butterfly offered the sort of visual delight unparalleled by any fancy TV show or detailed video game. But this particular butterfly was of no ordinary beauty: it surpassed the effervescence of a Blue Morpho and put any self-respecting Peacock Butterfly to shame. Its wings were the purest, most daring hue of white, and my wide eyes could just pick out the palest, most delicate speckles of grey spattered haphazardly on them.

I knew, in that very second, that that butterfly was meant to be mine. No; it had to be mine! In a frenzied rush, I raced inside to grab the two materials crucial to my ingenious plan. Just as quickly, I raced back outside, willing the butterfly to still be there.

For a second, my heart jumped into my throat and stayed there, decisively blocking off any air struggling to get through- it was gone! But then, I felt a brush of warmth and with a sort of shocked awe I realized that not only had my butterfly returned, but it had landed right on top of my shoulder! As gently as I could, I transferred it off of my shoulder and into my waiting palm, before carefully bending down and picking my two Incredibly Important Materials Crucial to the Incredibly Important Plan off the ground.

Now, of course, you may be wondering what sort of brilliant, complex, and perhaps illegal materials I had designated to be the two Incredibly Important Materials Crucial to the Incredibly Important Plan. I can tell you without hesitation that they were no such things. My two Incredibly Important Materials were, in fact, tape and string.

With the utmost care I ripped off a portion of the tape and applied it to the string, followed by my reverent-like attachment of the tape to the wing of the butterfly. Awkwardly, it crouched there; gently nestled into the warm crook of my hand. My mouth was suspended for a second in the shape of a silent O, disbelief crowding my face and mind. A great smile seized my lips then, for I was now the proud owner of a real, honest-to-goodness butterfly. Ecstatic, I threw my palm up, meaning to launch the butterfly into the air and watch, mesmerized, as it flew around in erratic patterns, guided only by the rise and fall of the delicate wind.

‘Riiiiiiiiip!’ The sound was jarring, disturbing, and managed to send little shards of glass into my little heart. I froze, my blood boiling over and then running cold. Slowly, and with great trepidation, I lowered my thin white string. There, attached to the very end, beneath a piece of cloudy tape, lay a torn piece of stark white gossamer speckled with the palest, most delicate shade of grey.

It was the wing of my butterfly.

For the seemingly longest time the butterfly hung suspended in the air, single wing dangling from an invisible string. Then, gradually, it began to waft down, twisting in the wind like an autumn leaf. It spun, performing one last, sad, pirouette, before exiting off the stage and into the wings. For a short eternity I stood there, transfixed, eyes fastened on that one spot on the ground that marked both the most beautiful and devastating thing I had seen in my life.

That day, I gained something; something that taught me about life, about death, and how easily the wall separating the two can be breached.

And now, when the weather is gloomy and my heart carries with it the weight of the world, I look out the window and see a butterfly. And sometimes, just sometimes, I can make out a pair of stark white wings dappled with the lightest, most delicate shade of grey, performing one last dance just for me.

© 2012 SomeoneSomewhere

Author's Note

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Marie

Ok, I hope this isn't too late. This is well written, but somewhat overdone. I suggest a few changes here:

For I, in all my childhood glory, had just glimpsed a butterfly.(HERE I WOULD LEAVE OFF THE PHRASE "IN ALL MY CHILDHOOD GLORY)
For a second, my heart jumped into my throat and stayed there, decisively blocking off any air struggling to get through- it was gone!(I WOULD RESTYLE THIS SENTENCE AS "FOR A SECOND MY HEART JUMPED INTO MY THROAT--IT WAS GONE!")
‘Riiiiiiiiip!’ The sound was jarring, disturbing, and managed(SEEMED) to send little shards of glass into my little heart.

So far you've written a good, rather sweet childhod story. I don't really know how to advise you on the rest of it. But this is what I would do. I would chop off all the story after the sentence "Then, gradually, it began to waft down, twisting in the wind like an autumn leaf." And I would write "It spun gently, performing a dying dance.

I learned that day how thin is the wall between death and life; how easily it can be breached. I learned how fragile beauty is and how easily lost. And I never tried to catch another butterfly.

This is, simply, the way I write. It may not be the way you write. Just my take.

Good luck!