Ailes de Papillon

Excerpts from my recently published piece in the Kingfisher Literary Magazine's "Thursdaise" column. Check out their Substack, linked at the bottom of this page.

Before they are buried, they stick out from the ground, all sharp edges. On the palm of my hand, they look like fragile butterflies — all antennae and orange, waxy wings. A shred of once-bright petals is just visible before the spike of the seed. I crush dried marigolds and scatter them, using my gloved hand to bury them, thoroughly but gently.

My brother cradles calendula seeds that resemble small white, curling centipedes. In this early hour, before the heat of the day has set and sleep is still a possibility, we are out here planting foraged seeds. I watch the way his hands skirt the soil, carving valleys with the edge of his wrist, pressing seeds beneath loam. I see so much of who he is in the smallest things he does, but is that because we come from the same threads? What are the stories we share without speaking?

***

When I close my eyes, I lie beneath a wall of hanging clothes. I am in a closet with sliding doors. It’s just me and a sliver of pale August sunlight. I am gulping down a quickly ebbing memory. I am taking handfuls of fabric, the rough lilt of linen and slippery silk staining my palms. I am letting salt and sadness soak into the carpet, greedy and yet desperate to leave this tiny space.

If I keep the doors shut and stay in this darkness, will the present cling a little longer? The notion that memory could somehow swallow me up seems impossible. But I’ve also been known to look down roads that only go backward, romanticizing cobwebs and could’ve-beens.

When I open my eyes, I am blinking through dappled sunlight. I am grateful that some moments don’t lead anywhere but the present. That you can crush marigold seeds into a garden, and notice the way it makes you feel. And that doesn’t have to mean a damn thing about you.

* * *

In one ending, my heart is racing as I push for space, pulling your heavy hands from my waist, flinging open the front door. I am making my own way, far from your empty, battling words. They drop like birds hitting glass — broken-necked could’ve-beens that I don’t look back at for a second. The truth is, I was already gone, and you never looked for me.

You can find my bones in the sentences I’ve underlined, pinpricks of thought in the small graphite dots next to the important words. Are you listening now to the stories I tell, with and without words?

I don’t wear lipstick on fragile days because that’s when color is too heavy. I trade it in to become a shadow, defined only by the brighter objects in proximity. That I know now, that it’s okay to shield your story and protect your peace. That sometimes the only way to be loved is just as you are, and not as you could or should be. And you can always ask for love like that.

***

The right people listen to your stories, even if they see more of you than you meant them to, just by watching the way that you move through the world. At least they make room for both things to be true.

The marigolds we planted have since bloomed. Graphic courtesy of Kingfisher Literary Magazine.