Why I Love Butterflies

Yet, the butterfly remained. A memoir by Rebecca Stillwater

Photo by Damien Dan on Unsplash

The door swung open and shut constantly as nurses set up my Grandma Marion’s hospital bed in the living room. The stifling August heat seeped into the air-conditioned house with each new visitor. Once the bed was ready, they carefully placed my grandmother on it. She had been unable to move or speak since her stroke the night before. At 93, her mind had finally succumbed, just as her body had years earlier.

During the shuffling of people in and out of the house, a small painted lady buttery had found its way inside. It perched on a chair beside Grandma Marion, offering quiet companionship as she transitioned from this world to the next. My aunts, uncles, and cousins all took turns visiting Grandma Marion. We shared in tears and laughter as we reminisced about our memories with her. Yet, the butterfly remained faithfully by her side.

On the third day, while gathered in the dining room for dinner, we heard her take her last breath. Death rattle. A term I finally understood in that moment, when the last piece of her life echoed throughout the halls. We rushed into the living room and found her gone, like a blown-out candle, with only the melted wax to remind us there had once been a flame. The butterfly, which had stayed loyally with her, was now still and crisp—having joined her in death.

My mother, trying to comfort me, told me that butterflies were symbols of the soul. She believed the butterfly was Grandpa Karl, who had returned from Heaven to guide Grandma Marion home. After waiting 20 years to be reunited with her, her time had finally come. For the funeral, my mother gave me a butterfly necklace, a gift I still cherish to this day.

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Rebecca Stillwater is a writer from Atlantic City, New Jersey. Stillwater’s work has been published in In Parenthesis, Lone Mountain Literary Society, Digging Press Journal, and elsewhere. She holds a B.A. in Psychology from Stockton University.