My Butterfly

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