Glass

            It was too late in the year. Outside our old farmhouse, the golden fields were mellowing to a dry brown. Only the rust brown oak leaves flapped in the chilly fall winds, the others having already made their departure from the tree. Despite the wind, I often took off for walks in the woods behind our house, preferring the murmuring of the trees to other voices.

            A particular afternoon, I slipped on warm socks and armored myself against the late fall wind. Mom noticed, asked me to take my sister along. That is, my younger sister—ten years younger. I grimaced, letting that voice my complaint. Mom just gave me that look.

            “Can we go to the climbing tree? Can we?” Chrissy said as she pulled on her pink plastic boots.

            “Sure.” I shrugged.

            The wind pulled the door out of my hand as we left the house, and caught my sister and me up in it. We skirted the actual woods. It was longer, but part of me loathed having the silent sanctuary of the woods disrupted by the shrill cheeriness of my sister’s voice. The old apple orchard was where she wanted to go anyway.

            She climbed her tree and then wandered happily about the long brown grass growing amidst the apple trees. They had long been abandoned, allowing their snaky branches to grow wild, unpruned and untamed. The apple themselves were worthless, small and hole-ridden. The trees had silently born my childhood gymnastics and now silently stood with the same aloof dignity. Chrissy pushed into the wind and ran toward me, her pink boots clumping after her.  

            “What is it?” She pushed a stick in my face, grazing my all-too cold nose. At such close range, I missed seeing the small sack at first.

            “It’s a…..it’s a chrysalis, a butterfly egg.”

            “Oh! I’m going to show Mommy! Can we go home? I’m cold.”

            My sister’s memory is impeccable. The first thing she said when she walked in the door was to proudly proclaim her discovery of a “butterfly egg.” Mom was busy grading papers, and distractedly asked me to find a mason jar to house it. My sister insisted that she herself put the chrysalis in the jar. Once she saw that it was arranged perfectly so, she sat down to watch it hatch.

            “Dear, it’s going to take a long time to hatch,” Mom said.

            “No, it’s not. I’m going to watch it hatch,” she said with an assertive dip of her head. I left her to her watching. By dinner time, she had abandoned her vigil for something else. Our family forgot about it.

            It didn’t forget about itself. Perhaps because we brought it inside to warmth and light, or perhaps it was a miracle or a mistake, the butterfly hatched. It was weeks later of dwelling in the Mason jar that my sister noticed it hanging from the top of the jar, its wings drying. Mom didn’t believe her shrill screech and proud announcement at first. Yet, the butterfly was undeniably hatched, alive, and a problem.

            “I’m going to name it…..Butter!” my sister declared, bumping around Mom.  

            “We can’t keep it, dear,” Mom said, looking out the window, greeted with a brown, grey and barren vista. “But we can’t let it go, either.”

            “I’m going to keep it!” Chrissy hollered, her lower lip poised to make its demanding protrusion. Mom rolled her eyes, but went to look up on the computer what to feed a butterfly. Shortly, sugar water and sand attempted to make the jar a home.  

            “There. That should do it,” Mom said, her forehead dubiously wrinkled.

            I watched it. “We can’t keep it.”

            “We can’t let it go. It’s too cold outside,” Mom said, as if she was explaining it to a two-year-old child.

            “It will die in here, too. Look at it.” It was madly beating itself against the glass walls, frantically trying to fly.

            “If we keep it, at least it has a better chance of surviving,” Mom returned.

            “Will it?”

            “We’ll see if it settles down after a while.” Mom went back to grading papers.

            The butterfly beat its wings against the curved glass of the jar, skirting around, looking for a way out. Fine figments of butterfly scales powdered the inside. Its wings beat incessantly. The noiseless rhythm seemed to echo throughout the entire house; the desperate pulse jarred our souls. I hung as if in suspense, to see if the jar would break its wings. By dinner time, I couldn’t stand it.

            “I’m letting it go.” I announced to Mom as she set the table.

            “But, dear…..,” her voice trailed off.

            I carried the jar to the window. The clouds over the barns and fields, laying heavy on the roofs, held up by the barren trees. Everything was awash in the tiresome grey. Even the barns seemed to have lost their red vibrancy as the pall of winter slowly settled. I pushed open the old storm window with a noisy creak, expressing its reluctance to move its achy, ancient hinges. The cold air sucked inside with a gust, catching my breath. A quick twist, and the top of the jar was off.  Without pause, the butterfly flitted out into the cold and wind. The wind cruelly tossed it, as if with a play toy. Yet, it flew higher and farther, a speck of bold color amidst the first few snowflakes. I watched it until it disappeared, my hands pressed against the window glass.