Short Story: Spring

He spotted it in the corner of the window. Its wings
peeked over the frame, their slow repeated fluttering
suggesting exhaustion. He studied the butterfly
closely. Between those black and red brown wings, the
hairy body looked too large. He realised the wings
hadn’t grown, but were small and jagged as if
corroded. Perhaps it was this weather. Spring just
wouldn’t come. A stubborn north wind kept everything
leafless. It kept the flowers in their buds so dooming
this little creature as well.

“Brian, you’ll have to help me up.”
The nurse didn’t come today so he’d agreed to take the
day off to help mom.
“Yes, mummy.”
He wondered why she’d put on her dress to sit on the
bed, perhaps to look her best for him. He took her by
the bony shoulders to straighten her, then moved his
left hand to support her back. At the touch of the
weak flesh bulging around her bra strap his hand
pulled back, like a snake that’d just struck and
coiled itself for another lunge. This happened without
thought and she seemed not to have noticed. Gently he
moved her from the bed, remembering all the times, at
dances and parties, when his hand felt the strap
slightly indenting a girl’s tight flesh.

“I want to read now.”
“It wasn’t necessary to get off the bed for that. You
could’ve asked for the book you wanted.”
“Brian dear, you’ll have to be patient with me. The
bed’s only good for sleeping anyway.”

He helped her downstairs to the small crowded lounge
where they sat down on the settee in front of the
television, where his mom and dad used to sit when he
was small. The flotsam of three lives, all the
memories and feelings, had washed up among the
furniture and photo frames. A sports car passed in the
street, moving at a leisurely pace but making a noise
like a race car. His mom gave a short laugh.

“Silly ass, it’s like seeing a chess player groan like
a weightlifter.”
“I hate them.”
“You get used to it. It’s nothing new.”
“I lived here for twenty-six years and I still hate
them.”

She took up her book. He knew her eyesight was failing
and she’d spend ages on one page. He listened to the
sounds, the traffic noise, the planes taking off from
the airport behind the tenements. A lock of white
hair swung down her forehead. Without taking her eyes
off the page, the same page, she carefully tucked it
back in.

Suddenly his vision blurred and he started sobbing. In
a flash as if to put out a fire, she dropped her book
and embraced him. She held his head against her
shoulder and rubbed the back of his head and neck.
Whenever she did that to him in the past his dad had
disapproved. And he himself hated being cuddled as
well, and for a moment he tried to pull back, but it
worked.

“Now dear, it’s all right.”
He stopped crying.

A week later Spring arrived. Leaves dusted the trees a
bright green and insects appeared. Perhaps the
butterfly survived too.

first published in The Birmingham Art's Journal, Birmingham, Alabama, USA