The Butterfly

A butterfly lives in my mother's throat. I couldn't tell you if it's beautiful, but I can tell you that it's deadly. Sly, conniving, greedy.

I've never caught glimpse of shimmering wings, nor graceful legs, nor beady, buggy eyes. When my mother coughs, I stare at the greenish stain that blooms across her throat. I can almost see the delicate feelers, tickling her, forcing great, wracking coughs out of her.

The butterfly grows a little everyday. Slowly, they say, verrry slowly. A slow and evil approach, an inexorable thudding in her blood. It will not listen to reason, nor even threats. It invites war, for it thrives on chaos.

It could kill her.

Legions of unseen soldiers fight their way in, burning and razing all that stands in their way. The butterfly is their leader, their king, their God. Grown fat on her life, it heads its forces with malicious, malignant pleasure.

It's killing her now, and I can't save her.

My mother searches for God. A God within, or a God without- something to believe in. But faith doesn't come easy to people taught to survive without it, so she puts her trust in other things. Not in the Sun, who promises her to rise each day, and not in the moon, who promises to watch over her. She has no use for the oaths of waves.

She believes in people, men and women who wear cold masks to hide their sorrow and suits to hide their bodies. She has put herself in their covered hands. She has put herself in mine.

None of us can promise her anything like the sun, the moon, and the waves can.  The butterfly rejoices, an evil, ghoulish sound.