The little girl lay in a crumpled heap, her face pressed into the tile floor, weakened by sorrow. She cried in long sobs. Her father was shaken by the depth of her anguish—he had doubted that a three-year-old heart could break so loudly. Maybe she was as much crying at the appearance of her parents' own tears and reddened eyes, as at the lifeless body of an animal she knew only as "Stevie". Her parents named him Stephen—a reference to the New Testament saint. It was a strange name for a ferret, but seemed at the time to complement the name of the older one, Micah; fury companions named for ancient characters from a distant land. Her father asked himself again, what does the Almighty feel for animals? Why do we share the world with them? Why is the short time shared with a small animal so painful to conclude? The little girl knew nothing of these questions. She was facing a more raw lesson. The girl had begun to learn about life and death, about joy and pain. Her sobs would echo through the years as she faced losses more significant and more lasting than the burial of a small, seven-year-old ferret. But in her young life the hurt was fresh and real, something briefly incapacitating and cruel. In spite of the happy memories that overlapped the best years of their lives, her parents were reviewing the same lesson. Her father seemed to hear the echoes of a little boy far away, weeping for a small furry animal that lay still and cold in the dark...
On the occasion of the death of Steve the ferret
4.14.85-10.22.92
2012
Thursday, October 22, 1992
Saturday, February 22, 1992
butterflies
A gentle wind caught her fine, blonde bangs and shifted them on her forehead. It was one of those dream-like autumn days when the wind returns to a frolicsome, summery attitude after trying its first winter chill. Most leaves had made their way to the grass beneath our feet. For a little girl who had known only California seasons, the transition seemed enthralling. We had ventured off the leafy path to look at monarch butterflies. The creatures filled the sky without explanation. It took us both by surprise. Maybe the little girl was less amazed than her father, since little girls are used to seeing wondrous things for the first time. We strolled from bush to partly-clad tree, watching as dozens of the transformed insects at once masqueraded as leaves in fall hue, and then swirled heaven-ward as we approached. They seemed to have a purpose and a direction in their migration. Yet, the season felt too advanced, and the prospect of frost cast a bittersweet shadow on the spectacle.
The little girl remembered the butterflies, even when the snows of the midwest lay over the path like a white chrysalis. She would look far away in the air when we spoke of that sweet and magical afternoon.
It was a spring day when two pairs of feet again trod the path. We watched distant birds, and listened to the sounds of early renaissance. A trickling brook accompanied the echoes of a woodpecker, which went unseen. The girl guessed that it might be a pelican. As we walked the damp path, she asked to ride on my shoulders. We talked about the seasons, and I marveled at her trust in my promise that warm days would soon come. It wasn't long before she remembered the butterflies. We scanned the undergrowth, as if expecting the miracle to spring forward in February. I felt her hands on my head as I explained that the butterflies might return in the coming months.
"When the butterflies come back, we will come here and look at them, like we did when you were a little girl" I promised. She had a way of seeking confidence by repeating the phrases of her mom and dad; "Yeah" she said. There was a pause.
"When butterflies come back, we can come here and see 'em ...and I be a little girl again."
Her words caught me by surprise. The words of innocence often fracture the glaze that coats a mind unaware of the passing time. These were the words of a little girl who wasn't so little anymore. My view of the spring day grew fuzzy as tears appeared where I least expected them. My voice was soft and unsure as we talked. I was in the company of my daughter, but changeless generations of fall butterflies will never stop time's hand.
Maybe in heaven, dads will be able to have afternoons with their little girls again. In this world we can't go back.
2.22.92
The little girl remembered the butterflies, even when the snows of the midwest lay over the path like a white chrysalis. She would look far away in the air when we spoke of that sweet and magical afternoon.
It was a spring day when two pairs of feet again trod the path. We watched distant birds, and listened to the sounds of early renaissance. A trickling brook accompanied the echoes of a woodpecker, which went unseen. The girl guessed that it might be a pelican. As we walked the damp path, she asked to ride on my shoulders. We talked about the seasons, and I marveled at her trust in my promise that warm days would soon come. It wasn't long before she remembered the butterflies. We scanned the undergrowth, as if expecting the miracle to spring forward in February. I felt her hands on my head as I explained that the butterflies might return in the coming months.
"When the butterflies come back, we will come here and look at them, like we did when you were a little girl" I promised. She had a way of seeking confidence by repeating the phrases of her mom and dad; "Yeah" she said. There was a pause.
"When butterflies come back, we can come here and see 'em ...and I be a little girl again."
Her words caught me by surprise. The words of innocence often fracture the glaze that coats a mind unaware of the passing time. These were the words of a little girl who wasn't so little anymore. My view of the spring day grew fuzzy as tears appeared where I least expected them. My voice was soft and unsure as we talked. I was in the company of my daughter, but changeless generations of fall butterflies will never stop time's hand.
Maybe in heaven, dads will be able to have afternoons with their little girls again. In this world we can't go back.
2.22.92
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