Papa's Butterfly Wings

    Papa's Butterfly Wings    

         Running through the tall grass, the little girl hadn't a care in the world save holding tightly to the handle of the mesh box her grandfather had constructed that afternoon. 

         "We've got to get there before they turn their lights on," she cried over her shoulder.

         Striding in the little girl's wake was a distinguished-looking older gentleman, tall in stature, straight of posture, a softly wisping pipe clenched between his pursed lips setting out curls of smoke that perfectly matched the soft waves of gray hair upon his head. 

         "Stop when you get to the road, Debbie," he called behind her, knowing he needn't worry.  She never ran farther than he could see, and she always stopped at the road to await his guiding hand. 

         At the edge of the road he reached out and wrapped one of her strawberry blonde curls around his finger and tugged playfully.  "Hey!" Debbie faked a frown at her grandfather; a frown that quickly turned to a genuine smile of affection as her small hand came to rest in the hollow of his palm.

         "Are you going to tell stories tonight, Papa?" she asked.

         "Firefly hunting wouldn't be the same without stories, would it?"

         Debbie didn't need to answer.  She looked up into her grandfather's glistening blue eyes and for an instant caught her own reflection.

         The sun was beginning to set as the pair reached the large rock that stood out like an island amid the endless waves of wheat.  Debbie watched Papa empty his pipe, wrap it in a handkerchief, and tuck it safely into his vest pocket.  The sweet odor of his spiced tobacco reached her as he snuffed out the smoldering ashes with the toe of his shoe. 

         As the last rays of sun began to fade he pointed to a spot in the distance.  "Watch," he whispered.  Debbie looked and saw the tiny lights begin to flicker.  She waited for his nod, and jumped from the rock and ran through the wheat, returning moments later with her collection of insects.

         "It is perfect!" she gushed breathlessly, holding up the mesh cage.  "It's like a lantern that never runs out!"  With her grandfather's help, she clambered to the top of the flat rock and sat cross-legged, waiting expectantly for the promised stories.

         Papa drew in his breath and began:  "They were like fireflies on the horizon.  As we lay in the darkness of the underbrush we could see only a rare flicker from a distant lantern when they stopped to check their position.  They marched under cover of night, an occasional tiny speck of light moving along, up and down, disappearing behind trees and hills only to reappear later.  We were the night watchmen, and by morning we had to make a report on the enemy's position."

         "How did you stay up all night, Papa?"

         "It wasn't easy.  Bryce had a tiny flashlight and a miniature deck of cards.  He'd cover the lens with a handkerchief tied with a string.  Two of us would sleep, two would play cards, and two watched.  We took turns all night, sleeping, watching, and waiting.  It was the only way we could survive.  In the morning we would make our report and march on with the troops.  Sometimes we would engage the enemy along the way, other times it was quiet.  We always had to be wary; the enemy could be hiding anywhere.

         "The battlefield was an ugly place." Debbie could see Papa's face twist as the memories played like movies in his mind. "But I always tried to find something beautiful in every day," he finished, glimpsing Debbie's concern. "We cut through the jungle with machetes.  There were beautiful trees covered with vines, and colorful beetles that looked like shiny metal.  But the butterflies," he paused, took a deep breath and blew it out.  "The butterflies were amazing!"

         "Tell me about the butterflies, Papa," Debbie yawned, lying back against his broad chest and listening to the comforting beat of his heart. 

         "The butterflies were huge.  The inside of their wings were bright glossy blue but the backs were brown, with spots that looked like owl eyes.  They were invisible with their wings closed but as we walked by, they would flutter.  It was like the sky itself was coming down to protect us."

         Looking down at his granddaughter he saw that familiar blue in her eyes.  "Let's go home," he said.  "I want to show you something."

         Hand in hand the pair walked through the wheat by firefly light.  Safely across the road Debbie stopped for a last look at her flickering collection.  She pulled the cork from the hole, set the mesh box on a tree stump, and watched the insects emerge and fly away.  Turning towards the house Debbie saw her grandfather summon her with a wave of his hand.  He was gently swaying the porch swing, a book open in his lap.

         "Here," he patted the seat next to him and Debbie climbed up and snuggled close.  "Each day I'd write in this book and when I could, I'd pick up something from my travels to remind me that life was beautiful."  Debbie couldn't read the writing, but the pressed flowers and leaves told Papa's story.

         From his vest pocket he pulled a small glass jar.  "These are the beetles," he said, holding the jar up to the light.  The beetles reflected a rainbow of metallic hues.  "And these," he said, bringing the little girl's attention back to the book in his lap, "are the wings of butterflies I picked up along the way." 

         Debbie's blue eyes perfectly matched the blue butterfly wings.  "They're beautiful," she whispered. 

         Today, Papa's memory lives in Debbie's heart and his book, still filled with pressed flowers and butterfly wings, graces the shelf next to a tiny vial filled with metallic beetles.  His grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren, most of whom he never met, all love to catch fireflies and listen to the story of Papa's butterfly wings.

      I miss you, Papa.     

997 words

Writer's Cramp Prompt:  Monday is Veteran's Day. Write a story or poem in tribute to our brave soldiers or tell us about a soldier you know giving us his/her story (or yours, if you served.)

:::If you read, please take the time to rate and review.  Thanks:::