Butterfly's Fall

Written as kind of a prequel to:

Leaves  (E) Walking down Midwood Street, all I saw was falling showers of orange, gold, and red. . . . #2013219 by beetle

Butterfly loved autumns.

Perhaps it was the scents: fallen leaves, cinnamon, imminent rain, and always, even if it was faint, the smell of wood-smoke, dreamy yet sharp, and pervasive. It decorated the neighborhood like the fumes from an unseen censer.

Perhaps it was the sights of autumn that so stirred her soul: the showers of orange, red, and gold that fell on Midwood Street of an autumn. Because of the many trees, one for each brownstone, mostly oak, birch, and maple, in fall, it fairly rained autumn.

Or maybe . . . maybe it was the feel of autumn. The terse, businesslike wind, off on its errands, shuttling that wood-smoke scent here, there, everywhere. Maybe it was the whisper and crunch of leaves underfoot.

Then again, it could easily have been the tastes of the season that had come to mean autumn for Butterfly . . . apple pies and cider, and pumpkin scones—pumpkin everything, really—and even the taste of cherry cough medicine, for Butterfly often caught her first cold early in the season.

Or, after all that, Butterfly’s favorite thing about autumns may have been the sounds. Rather, the lack thereof. For autumn always brought with it its own peculiar hush, which seemed to blanket the world in a restful, expectant silence. Kind of like the silence in the moments just before Butterfly fell asleep at night.

As she walked home from school one day near the end of fall she reflected on these weighty matters all the way down from Nostrand Avenue till she reached the very center of Midwood Street. In front of number fifty-two, she stopped as something caught her eye.

There, seemingly propped up against the front door of Mrs. Rose’s brownstone—number fifty—was an enormous maple leaf, all deep burgundy at the edges and a vibrant, waxy red at the heart.

It must’ve blown over from Mrs. Woody’s maple tree, Butterfly thought, passing number fifty-two to climb the front steps of number fifty. (There were no fences on Midwood Street. Each attached brownstone had a shallow stoop with a token front terrace, and that was all.)

Hopping up Mrs. Rose’s steps, Butterfly stopped at the penultimate step and bent to examine the lone leaf, shivering in the busy breeze.

“You’re so pretty,” she told it quietly, reaching out to pluck up the bit of burgundy and red between her thumb and first finger. The stem was gritty and cool to the touch. “I think I’ll take you home and put you in a glass of water. You’d make Grandma smile, just like you made me smile. I—”

Suddenly the front door of Mrs. Rose’s house banged open and Mrs. Rose’s eldest daughter, Sharon, stood there, glaring. She was fifteen, tall, pretty, and always angry.

Especially, it seemed, when she happened upon Butterfly.

“What’re you doing on my porch?” the other girl demanded. Unlike Butterfly, Sharon went to public school and it showed. She was confident and tough, and she didn’t take anyone’s shit. Not even her mother’s.

Butterfly blinked into Sharon’s dark eyes and smiled, holding out the leaf to a suddenly puzzled and young-looking Sharon.

“For you,” Butterfly said, holding it closer when Sharon didn’t move to take it. “It’s so pretty and it made me smile. I thought maybe you might need to smile, too.”

Sharon still didn’t take the leaf, merely gaped at Butterfly, who finally pressed the leaf into the other girl’s warm, lax hand.

When Sharon’s hand closed tentatively around the leaf, Butterfly grinned, her heart skipping beats.

“What—who—who goes around giving people leaves for no reason.” Sharon demanded once more, only this time it sounded more like a plea. Butterfly blushed and looked down shyly.

“I do,” she said softly, and risked a glance back up at Sharon. “Anyway . . . happy autumn!”

And with that, Butterfly turned and hopped down each step of Mrs. Rose’s stoop, one eye out for another pretty leaf to take home to her Grandma. In fact, there was a large, lovely green and gold leaf falling from Mrs. Rose’s old oak, practically glittering as it fell.

Butterfly, ever spry, caught it before it touched the ground, and held it up to the light. It was absolutely perfect. Her Grandma would love it. . . .

Elated, Butterfly fairly floated to her front door, number fifty-two.

And so, she didn’t even notice Sharon Rose still standing quietly on her doorstep, staring at the maple leaf in puzzlement and wonder . . . smiling.

END