Butterfly

June 8, 2005.

I wish my life was different. I know that’s what every typical teenage girl writes in her journal, but I want to make the difference. Let me establish this, I am willing to do whatever it takes to make my life different. When I’m done with myself, no one will recognize me, not even myself. –Rose

***

March 19, 2007

I walked home from the funeral that early spring afternoon. The sun had been peaking through the clouds throughout the day without any sign of coming out fully. I sighed to myself as the still frost-bitten wind nipped at my fingers. I tugged my jacked closer to my body, trying to keep warm.

The funeral had been typical. Small chapel. Even smaller graveyard. What else could you expect living in a small town? Everything is small.

The only part of the funeral I didn’t see coming was the eulogy. I expected to hear her parents speak, but they didn’t. Rose’s older brother Roderick, more commonly known as Rory, spoke highly of his deceased sister. He got a few chuckles with a brief comment about always fighting over the little things, the TV remote, who got the car, and even the occasional last popsicle in the freezer. However, the murmured laughter turned into silent tears when Rory stopped talking about what a pain his sister had been and began talking about what a wonderful person she
was.

He didn’t have to tell us twice.

His words haunted me on my weary walk home, “A truly beautiful person. She captured the hearts of all she met. She charmed with her contagious laughter that was always audible despite being in loud crowds. She didn’t deserve to die so young. But I’m thankful to call her my sister. I’m proud of her, no matter how her life turned out. I’m just happy she lived. And oh, did she live.”

As I walked past the barely growing shrubbery of my front yard, I considered going inside, but I kept walking. I walked to the garden. My garden. Rose’s garden. Our garden.
It was only a short walk from my house. We had found it when we were in the sixth grade.

Oh, how young we were.

May 30th, 2002

The sun was too bright for Rose.

“Come on Gracie! I’m dying of heat, please?” Rose begged with me, she was just being overdramatic as usual.

“No. We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s against the law!”

“It’s not against the law if nobody lives there.”

Rose and I had stumbled upon an abandoned house while on one of our many adventures in the forest behind my backyard. You could hardly call it a house. It was more like a cottage, or a shack. It was falling apart; it had vines growing up its small brick walls. Rose fell in love with it, but not because it provided a club house for our young sixth grade selves, but because attached to it was a small garden with high brick walls and one small white picket fence that opened into a small stream. It was truly like it was out of a fairytale.

“Ok, fine.”

To escape the dreadful heat, we retreated to the cool shade of the cottage. I knew it wasn’t exactly the safest place to avoid the sun, the roof was practically caving in, but it was where Rose wanted to go. And I wasn’t about to argue with my best friend.

We had only been there once before, and judging by the looks of the place, no one else had been there either. Rose pulled open the small, wooden cottage door. It was only two rooms, and had what appeared to be a small loft. It had what looked like the remains of a small kitchen with a small table that had crumbled years ago. The cabinets that were probably once white were fading and chipping. A practically miniscule hearth was located on the right side of the room with a door opposite it. Next to it was a small window and a broken ladder, most likely used to climb to the loft. The door on the right led to a smaller room with large windows. I was surprised to see the fully intact windows. There was nothing in the room besides a small moth-eaten rug, discolored from the sun.

“It’s smaller than I imagined,” Rose claimed with a pout.

Her pout turned to a smile when she noticed the back door, and fully knowing what was on the other side, “I wonder where this leads to.” She smirked at me.

The garden was in a worse state than the house. The two brick walls that bordered the house were covered in vines that grew taller than a grown man. The remnants of a stone path were covered in dirt and weeds.

Rose took notice of the picket fence and stream in the very back. The fence needed to be repainted; the white had long chipped away. Rose leaned against the gate the allowed passage to the stream.

“It won’t open!” Frustrated, she kicked it in. For a small sixth grader, she had a lot of strength.

“Ahhh….” She sighed as she stuck her feet into the stream.

I wasn’t in the mood for taking off my socks and shoes, so I looked further downstream.

“Rosie! There’s a little pond!”

We took off toward it; it was only a short walk from there.

Rose held her arms up in the air, “This place is like a dream!”

Indeed it was.

But that was time when everything was simpler.

Simple. That’s how you could describe it. It had been a few years since I had ventured back to our garden of dreams, but I needed to do it. I needed to honor Rose.