My Butterfly

mine.
    “Your mom’s a strong woman,” I say and then pause.
    I see her eyes turning sad as her poker face slightly falters.
    “After all, she put up with me for fifty years,” I say.
    Her eyes turn down as she laughs to herself. I secretly wish I could see her laugh more—see all my children laugh more. My children know my time here is coming to a close. They’re wrestling with the one certainty of life we all must face at some point. It’s not easy, I know. I wish I could heal them and erase their fears, but again, I know I can’t. But that’s why God made grandchildren, I guess. Aah, the blessing of grandchildren. They know not of life’s trials or its most hated foe. My grandchildren are wonderfully oblivious, and they still laugh. And I love their laughter. If it weren’t for them, I fear that there would be very little laughter in my last days.
    “But take care of her—your mom—will you, dear?” I ask her when our eyes meet again. “Just come visit her when you can and bring your two, little ones, and tell Jackson and Abigail to do the same.”
    She lets out a sad sigh and pushes her lips together. Then, a renegade tear escapes from her eye, and I reach up to wipe it away.
    “I love you, Austin,” I say. “You’ve always been so strong, like your mom.”
    She squeezes my hand and holds it tightly.
    “I love you too, Daddy, and I will,” she says, slowly nodding her head.
    Then, we hear a “mommy” echoing through the hallway. It’s one of her little ones. The voice sounds shaken but not life-threatened. It’s probably nothing a kiss and a Band-Aid can’t heal.
    Austin rises from her chair, still holding my hand. Then, she kisses my head and rests my hand back onto the bed before turning to tend to her child. I watch her hurry to the doorway, but before she disappears into the hallway, I remember something.
    “Austin,” I say, regaining her attention.
    “Yes, Daddy?” she asks, as she turns around.
    I gather the letter from my lap, carefully fold it twice and hold it out toward her.
    “Will you put this in your mother’s journal?” I ask.
    She hesitates, her eyes locked on the cream stationery.
    “Sure, Daddy,” she says, walking back toward me.
    I release the letter into her keeping and softly smile. She forces a smile too. It’s a knowing smile. It understands. I’m thankful and also saddened—only because I can’t make her hurt go away. It’s all a part of life, I tell myself. And I would tell her the same, except that she already knows.
    “Mommy.”
    We both hear the little voice calling from the hallway again.
    “Go,” I say, smiling wider and nodding in her direction.
    She glances at the letter pressed in between her soft fingers, and then she looks back up at me. I watch her take a deep breath, and I can tell she’s fighting back tears.
    “Go, go,” I say, chuckling and shooing her out the door. “And bring him in here once you’ve made him all better.”
    She smiles one, last time and then turns and exits the room, with the letter in her hand.
    I rest my head back against the headboard behind me after she’s gone. I’m well aware that my time here is short, and there are no late check-outs when the Big Man calls you home. I know that, and anyway, I’m not looking for any. I’ve said my peace, and I’ve lived a good life—a full life, with my butterfly at my side. That’s all I ever wanted. And now, I have a new mission—to spend forever with her. Get to forever. Get to forever. Meet her at the gates of forever—do what I’ve got to do to meet her there, so she has someone there waiting for her, so she’s not alone.
    I turn and reach inside the nightstand drawer next to the bed and pull out her photo.
    “My Jules,” I whisper, as I clutch the old photo in both hands.
    And suddenly, a silhouette appears in the doorway. I look up and then quickly shove the photo under my leg and fight back my tears. I can’t explain the tears. I’m at peace, but I guess it’s still hard knowing I have to leave her for a little while.
    “I brought you some tea, dear,” she says, shuffling into the room.
    I watch her make her way toward me, set the tea tray down onto the nightstand and then fall slowly into the chair beside the bed.
    “Thank you, sweetie,” I say, meeting her eyes and gently smiling.
    Her eyes are the same—the same eyes I remember from her pigtail days and her cut-off-jeans days and her eight-months-pregnant days. They’re soft and sexy