{"id":1292,"date":"2014-10-03T11:33:47","date_gmt":"2014-10-03T18:33:47","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/erikdolson.com\/?p=1292"},"modified":"2014-10-03T11:33:47","modified_gmt":"2014-10-03T18:33:47","slug":"a-chapter-from-butterflies","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/erikdolson.com\/?p=1292","title":{"rendered":"A Chapter from “Butterflies”"},"content":{"rendered":"

Mother\u2019s Day<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Sam lay down after wrapping his arm in a towel and his belt around that. In 10 minutes, he was asleep. In 10 minutes more, I had bandaged the arm and walked back down to the patio, and was relieved that Tina was still there.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAre you okay?\u201d she asked.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Sorry about that. I get these spells and I black out. Did I say anything weird?\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I asked the question to prompt the discussion I knew she wanted to have.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSay anything?\u201d she laughed nervously. \u201cNo, not much. You just shoved a fork into your arm.\u201d She pointed at the spots of blood leaking through my shirt.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, yeah. That happens. Thought I was past that point. Those points. Sharp points, as it were.\u201d I smiled at my own bad joke, trying to turn the seriousness aside with humor. She wasn\u2019t really buying it, but was too smart to pry.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWas it something I said?\u201d she asked.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cJust that part about leaving things behind. That probably was part of it. That\u2019s hard. Really hard. I\u2019m sorry you have to go through that.\u201d <\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Sam doesn\u2019t know why he dug the fork into his arm, and won\u2019t when he wakes. He just reacts when the pain gets to where he can\u2019t stand it anymore. He self destructs. He simply doesn\u2019t want to be.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

It wasn’t Tina\u2019s word\u2019s, certainly, and not what happened that is so painful. It\u2019s that he can\u2019t go back and fix it. That he is doomed forever to dance on knife blades of remorse. That\u2019s why he can\u2019t remember. That\u2019s what he wants to leave behind with suicide.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Sam doesn\u2019t know, but I remember the day so clearly. I don\u2019t know how old Abby was, but my image of her is at age nine or ten. I was on my way to pick up Abby at grade school. It was uncharacteristically hot for Seattle, and had been a wet Spring and it was humid as the sun pulled moisture from the earth.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I was on time, though I\u2019d had to break off work in the middle of a painting that was going pretty well. That\u2019s frustrating, because the muse doesn\u2019t always return. Sometimes good work is lost because of interruption. Bt the alarm went off and I left the studio because I didn\u2019t like being late picking up Abby.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

When I got to the round-about at school where parents were parked and waiting, kids were streaming out the front door. Young boys tore around, yelling, some mock fighting, others playing keep away, blowing off energy pent up by hours inside. Some girls were nearly as rowdy at that ambisexual age, while others were more reserved, beginning to take on roles of womanhood.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Abby finally appeared and I groaned, because I could tell by her posture and pace that she wasn\u2019t happy. And when Abby wasn\u2019t happy, she didn\u2019t want anything in her world to be happy.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHi, Butterfly,\u201d I said when she got in the car. <\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHi,\u201d I got in the soft, drawn-out sad voice.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter, Sweetheart?\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNothing.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSomething must be the matter, You seem quite sad.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

She had been working at the edges of a large paper bag, so I asked her what was inside. <\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cA Mother\u2019s Day present.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cReally? Let me see it,\u201d I said.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

She pulled out a clay bowl of some sort, typical child art. <\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s beautiful. What is it?\u201d I asked. Mistake.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a candle holder!\u201d she said, irritated I didn\u2019t know..<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, I see. The candle goes in there.\u201d I hoped seeming stupid would cover for my gaffe. I also hoped that the SUV in front of me would pick up their child so I could get out of the tightly bunched line of cars.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s beautiful. So why so sad?\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI want a mother like the other kids have,\u201d she said, which of course cut me deeply. She said it while looking out at the front of the school. I wasn\u2019t the only dad picking up kids, but mostly it was women in their 30s, laughing and gossiping with each other as their children ran about.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou do have a mother like the other kids have. She just works, so I pick you up from school.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not the same thing,\u201d she said.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I let my own hurt feelings mingle with Abby\u2019s. They distiled into a toxic cloud inside the car, even with the windows open.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, then you can give me the mother\u2019s day present.\u201d I laughed, but my laugh was bitter. She didn\u2019t think it was funny at all. I got a frown.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s nothing I can do about it,\u201d I added, somewhat dismissively. Abby would just have to cope, just as I was coping, and Sarah was coping. Becky was a lawyer and had a heavy case load and was already making more money than I did, which added a bit of humiliation, a condiment for my meal of self-doubt.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou could get a real job so mom could stay home,\u201d Abby said.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Double blow: You don\u2019t have a real job. I would rather have mom. I walled up.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSweetie, I have a job, and even if I had a different one, your mom is doing what she wants to do.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I knew it was cruel as soon as I said it. We were free of the school traffic at last and slogging through the afternoon crush of a Friday. I bit my lip and tried to fix it.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSweetheart, your mom loves you every bit as much as other moms love their kids. It\u2019s no different.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not the same,\u201d Abby said, looking out the window.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLet me see your candle holder again,\u201d I said, hoping praise might bring her around.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t want to.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPlease?\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

She reluctantly pulled her sculpture from the paper bag.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou did a very nice job with that. I think it will throw light out of those holes onto the wall and will be just beautiful. Your mom will love it,\u201d I said.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t like it anymore,\u201d said Abby.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy? It\u2019s beautiful.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not the color I wanted. I wanted it to be the same color as the jewelry box on her dresser. It\u2019s too dark.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAbby, you don\u2019t necessarily want things to match perfectly. Some variation in shade of the same color is what you want. They compliment rather than copy each other.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t realize in the moment how tone-deaf I\u2019d become. But Abby, as always, was about to show me.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI am sure your mother will love it. She has to, because she\u2019s your mother and she loves you.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo she won\u2019t. It\u2019s too dark. It\u2019s ugly. I hate it,\u201d Abby said, and threw the clay candle holder out the window of the car. In the rear view mirror, I saw it shatter against a concrete bridge abutment over the river than ran through town, down to the sea.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAbby!\u201d I said, partly in shock at the permanence of her act, unsure whether to say something about pedestrian safety, littering, or give her words about finding something else for her mom. But I didn\u2019t say anything else. What else could I say?<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

What could I possibly say to a little girl who was sobbing uncontrollably in the car next to me, sobbing because I was the one sitting there and not the mother she loved?<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

It was misting when the bus crossed over the central spine of Isla Mariposas. As soon as the bus got over the top, farms became jungle, lushly dense and dark; houses turned to shanties on stilts; smells went from floral to fecal; music grew louder and more rhythmic. Mist at the mountain top turned to a hard rain.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Along side the road, a young boy picked up a banana leaf, at least as long as he was tall, and held it over his head to keep dry. When the weather here changes, find a shelter if there is one, and if not, find a leaf.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Or maybe just get wet, while waiting for the rain to stop, waiting for the sun to come out once again.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Mother\u2019s Day<\/p>\n

Sam lay down after wrapping his arm in a towel and his belt around that. In 10 minutes, he was asleep. In 10 minutes more, I had bandaged the arm and walked back down to the patio, and was relieved that Tina was still there.<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cAre you okay?\u201d she asked.<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Sorry about that. I get these spells and I black out. Did I say anything weird?\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

I asked the question to prompt the discussion I knew she wanted to have.<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cSay anything?\u201d she laughed nervously. \u201cNo, not much. You just shoved a fork into your arm.\u201d \u2026 Read more\u2026 → <\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"advanced_seo_description":"","jetpack_seo_html_title":"","jetpack_seo_noindex":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1292","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p3mcOb-kQ","jetpack-related-posts":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/erikdolson.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1292","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/erikdolson.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/erikdolson.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/erikdolson.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/erikdolson.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1292"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/erikdolson.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1292\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1293,"href":"https:\/\/erikdolson.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1292\/revisions\/1293"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/erikdolson.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1292"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/erikdolson.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1292"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/erikdolson.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1292"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}