by Laura Miller
I smiled wider and then took the last few steps to the gazebo and planted my feet in front of it. The air was warm—almost hot in my suit. I adjusted my jacket and then spotted my mom and dad in the front row. They both smiled that proud smile that parents get sometimes. Then, my gaze caught a piece of the river behind the levee and fell onto the butterfly weeds that danced along its edges. I gently smiled as my eyes lingered on the flowers for a few more seconds and my grandmother’s words replayed in my head: They bring the butterflies back.
Yes, they do, Grandma. Yes, they do.
The song of a violin suddenly forced my attention back to the aisle runner, and what I saw there made my heart skip a beat. There, standing at its end, was a pretty girl—my butterfly.
She was beautiful. The sun’s rays were cast against her silhouette, and her hair was down. And there was a veil over her face, but I could still see her pretty, green eyes and her pretty, soft lips. And I watched her lips now as they turned up into a soft smile.
I smiled too and memorized the way she took her slow, perfect steps, each one bringing her closer to me.
Her dress was simple but perfect. I noticed it now. It looked as though it was made for her. It was the kind that didn’t have any straps and that showed off her sun-kissed shoulders and arms—the kind that made me long to touch the places it didn’t. And in her hands were little, orange flowers—butterfly weeds. My smile beamed across my face, as my eyes made their way back to the green in hers.
Finally, she got close enough that I could touch her, and I reached for her hand. She planted her eyes in mine and gave me that playful, happy look that always drove me crazy. Then, she handed her flowers to Rachel and placed her hand in mine. There was a second where my eyes were locked in hers, and I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. Then, I felt something soft nudging against the palm of my hand. My gaze darted to our hands and then back up into her eyes. She was still smiling, but that didn’t keep my heart from starting to race. I didn’t need any more surprises today. I just needed her to say I do and then to love me for the rest of my life.
My gaze found our hands again. Then, I took the object and turned it over. It was a napkin, and there was writing on it—a couple of lines. I breathed in another slow, deep breath and then allowed my eyes to carefully follow over each word: Since my wish has come true, I guess I can tell you now. It was for you–for always. Love, Jules.
When I finished reading the words on the napkin, I reached for her other hand. My mind was already rushing back to the hood of my old truck and a warm, starry night when I brought my lips close to her ear.
“Thanks for marrying a country boy, pretty girl,” I whispered.
I watched as her lips started to part and then form a soft smile.
“I love you,” I whispered near her ear again.
Her eyes found and searched mine for a second. Then, her lips fell open.
“I’ve always loved you,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you, country boy.”
Epilogue
I’ve only got one story—the only story I live to tell. It’s about a girl. She was my first love, and she was my last love. And she was every love in between. Julia Lang stole my heart probably from the moment that I first laid eyes on her. Yes, that moment when she was in pigtails wanting to ride the big tractor at my grandpa’s store—that same moment I chased her off—I loved her then too. But, as life would have it, it would take me a few more years to figure out what it was that I felt for her then—what this love stuff was all about. Yet, even in her pigtail days, I always knew there was something in those moments—in those little moments when she waited with me, her hand on my knee, calming my fears or when she smiled and made me believe I was the only one in the world worth smiling for. In those little moments, she made me want to know her more. And like I have said, she was my first love, and little did I know at seven or at seventeen that I would spend the rest of my life chasing after that pretty girl—to college, across the country, across town to that dusty, gravel road where we spent a lot of our days and a lot of our nights too and even across the lawn when we played tag with the children we would raise together. I didn’t know then where life would lead us, but I didn’t have to know either. Love has a funny way of hiding the past and the future, so that the only moment that matters is right in front of you.
But I did make some mistakes in my life—lost some years I shouldn’t have, but then, I guess, that’s life. And that’s youth, I guess, too—always being wasted on the young. But in the end, I’m pretty sure that life is all about finding your way through it, around it, over it, any way it takes to get to the one you love.
Jules, I’m sorry I didn’t find my way to you faster.
My eyes follow over the words again I have written to the love of my life, knowing she’ll come across them one night as she sits next to an empty chair. The words in the letter aren’t anything I haven’t already said, but my hope is that they will remind her of some things after the good Lord takes me home.
A deep breath fills my lungs, and then I feel it escape past my lips in my next exhale. I just want her to know that I love her and that I’ll be waiting for her. And I want to remind her to live, to live each day just like she always has—full.
I reread the last piece of the letter:
Now, you and I both know that I’ll wait a lifetime for you— remember, Butterfly Weeds never give up. So take your time down there. And tonight, as you watch that big, orange sun disappear into the earth and your world gradually grow dark, I’ll help God turn on the stars, and I’ll wait for my dawn–when you return to me, Julia Stephens.
I love you, My Butterfly. You’ll always be my endless song.
I know I’ll be there with her, just like every night before, as she writes her life’s story in her journal and we watch the sun escape back into the lake. The only difference then will be that I won’t be right beside her. Instead, I’ll be watching her from above.
“Daddy,” I hear my oldest say as she enters my room. “How are you doing?”
My thoughts are put on hold, as I quickly turn over and lay into my lap the letter to her mom.
My little girl, who’s not so little anymore, makes her way over to me and kisses the bald spot on my head. She has a worried look on her face, but I know she doesn’t think I can tell. She tries to wear her pain on the inside. She always has. It’s the trademark of the oldest sibling, I think. She smiles and speaks in this calm and upbeat kind of way. But I’m her father. I recognize the hurt in her eyes. I only wish I could make it disappear.
It’s hard when your children get older and a simple hug or reassuring word can’t make the monsters or the fear of the dark simply disappear. Somewhere in the course of life, children struggles morph into adult ones, and the pain becomes too deeply rooted for a hug or a word to cure anymore. But it’s life, I remind myself again. And we must go through all of it—the good and the not-so-good—to be with the ones we love—even if it is on the other side.
“I’m as good as I’ve ever been, my dear, now that you’re here,” I say to my daughter’s brave expression.
I smile and stretch out my arms to hug her, forever hoping that a hug can still heal even a small piece of her heart today.
“Mom said you haven’t been feeling well today,” she says and takes a seat in the chair beside my bed.
Her expression hasn’t changed. It’s calm and soft.
“Oh, your mom worries about me too much,” I say, with a gentle smile.
I watch her lips slowly rise at their corners.
“But dear,” I say and rest my creased palm on her own, delicate hand.
Her eyes meet 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 and beautiful. I smile again at the thought. The only thing I didn’t see back then was just how loving they really are.
“Here,” she softly says, bringing the cup to my hands.
I notice her eyes lock onto the photo. A piece of it is sticking out, revealing the side of her young face. She acts as if she doesn’t see it, and she meets my eyes again and smiles.
“I love you, Will Stephens,” she says.
I take the tea cup in one hand and squeeze her soft, creased hand with the other. I look deep into her eyes then. I’m remembering all the moments that we loved and we cried and we loved so much that it made us cry. And I’m remembering all the hell we put ourselves through just to realize we should have been together from that very first moment. I love those moments, though. I love every one of them now. They’re our story now. Every mistake, every hurt, every joy, every longing—it’s ours, only ours.
“Jules,” I start to say, and for some reason, I just can’t get the words out.
I’m fighting back the tears in my eyes, and I’m remembering a lifetime of memories, and I just can’t get the words out to let her know how much love I have for her. I feel my lips quivering, and I quickly press them tightly together.
“I know,” she says softly. “I know.”
I search her eyes and let the air escape my lungs, as she buries her face into my hand near the mattress. I set the cup onto the nightstand’s surface and then place my other hand near hers. I can’t see her face, but I feel her tears falling wet onto my hand.
“I know,” she says again.
She buries her face deeper into both of my hands now and slides something hard in between my fingers. Then, she lifts her head and releases my hand, and my eyes fall onto a small, metal object.
“She kept you safe all these years,” she says, in almost a whisper. “I can’t come with you now…”
Her words trail off as I meet her gaze again. Pieces of her soft, gray hair have fallen near her face, and there are tears in her eyes. They make my heart break for her.
I squeeze the guardian angel, and then I rest my hand on top of hers again.
“Don’t be sad, sweetheart,” I say.
A forced smile is edging up my face.
“Will,” she says then, so softly I almost don’t hear her.
“Yes, sweetheart?” I say.
“Sometimes, I feel like we’re just kids,” she says and then pauses.
I follow the path her eyes make to the open window.
“And I think I hear rocks hitting the window, and I get the urge to climb out in the middle of the night and fall into your arms,” she says, returning her gaze to mine again and smiling through her tears.
“And sometimes,” she continues, “I just want to go to the end of a gravel road and stare up at the stars from the hood of your truck or climb that big bluff downtown and watch the fireworks dance to the sky—just one more time.”
She stops and smiles wider.
“And there are actually times when I just want to fight, about nothing—because that’s what you do when you’re young and in love,” she says, as a tear escapes from her face and lands gently on my hand.
“Will,” she continues.
I gaze deeper into her tear-filled eyes. There’s a sincere, yet longing smile on my lips now.
“I loved being young and in love with you,” she says.
I take a shallow breath and then let it escape my lungs.
“Me too,” I say, squeezing her hand tighter.
“And I know we missed some of those years,” she goes on. “But from those years we missed, I can only remember you in them now.”
She takes a moment before she continues.
“I remember your face when you first looked up and saw me in the doorway that New Year’s Eve so long ago,�
� she says. “You looked so happy, and for a second, you made me forget that we were ever apart. And I remember that night in the hospital. I never told you, but I woke up early that next morning and told myself that I should leave. But I took one look at your handsome, sleeping face and snuggled back into your arms. Those are the parts, along with all the other wonderful parts before them and after them, that I remember. Those are the parts I hold onto.
And Will, I love being not-so-young and in love with you too. Because whatever the moment, I love us.”
I watch her bury her face into my hands at my side again, and I let my head fall back as I squeeze my eyelids shut and fight back my own tears. Then, suddenly, I feel her lift her head again, and my eyes open and fall into hers.
“Sometimes, I’m scared I won’t remember who I am without you,” she says.
There’s a longing and an anxiousness in her eyes now. This part makes my heart ache, and finally, a tear wins the battle and escapes down my cheek.
“But then I remember that I’ll never truly be without you,” she continues, as a smile finds her face again. “Even in those years that you weren’t by my side, I was never without you, Will. I carried you with me everywhere I went. I carried you to the mountains and to the deserts and to the sand of San Diego. And I carried you to the live oaks and to the rivers and to the beaches in Charleston too. Because in the end, our story is one full of stumbles and tears and smiles and holding on and refusing to let go. It’s the best kind of fairytale, Will,” she says, with a happy smile. “And I couldn’t imagine living any of it without you. I love you, sweetheart. I love you a million times a million.”
Her face falls to my hands again.
“And to the moon and back,” I manage to say.
I wipe the tear from my face and then rest my hand on hers.
“Jules,” I say.
She gradually finds my eyes.
“You’ll meet me there, won’t you, My Butterfly?” I ask.
I watch her smile her perfect smile, and I know that she knows what I mean.
