Butterflies

copyright by Stefan Bolz

I sit under a tree on top of a small hill overlooking the magnificent valley. The golden late afternoon sun illuminates the tree tops below. No sound. Just stillness. On occasion, the wind gently moves the leafs above me. I look out toward the horizon. The emotional landscape of our relationship. In the place where we met under the tree, where we wove threads of dreams and affection together, the grass still shows the outline of where you sat next to me. Inside the quiet, the vacuum of stillness, echoes of our conversations linger still.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. I did not hear her sitting down on the other side of me. The grass dents, gives in, gives way to her small body’s weight. “I’m glad you came,” I say. “Of course,” she answers, her eyes capturing mine, not letting go, holding them within hers. Until tears stream down my cheeks like tiny rivers of glass. Her presence commands them, pulls them out of hiding. “I’m here,” her eyes tell me, and I nod. “You’re here.”

“Uh, look! A butterfly. Let’s chase it!” Already standing, she runs after it, and then stops, looks back. “Come on, Steffi…". I smile. I try not to but I do. I get up. Dents in the grass. Three of them. “Let’s chase some butterflies and watch the sun go down. And in the new dawn, a new day will rise and cocoons will open and birds will start chirping and threads of dreams will be woven. And the sun will be warm and affectionate. “