Wednesday, 29 June 2011
Two days before my Granny died, in between his afternoon sleep and his next trip to the hospice, my Grandpa rang me to say thank you for the card that I'd made for her and sent.
And after he'd updated me on the details of her decline, listed with selfless sincerity the little things that they had to be thankful for and told me that the end was now just days away he asked me:
"Is Granny the small red butterfly on your card?"
"Yes" I answered him, before hurrying through the rest of the conversation so that I could put down the phone and finally release the sobs that were lodged painfully in my throat.
For two long days I lived with an acute awareness of pain. I went about my days in distraction, knowing that there was unfinished business at hand and picturing that small red butterfly hammering its wings against the glass jar that contained it.
And so when the phone call came to tell me that Granny was gone, I felt nothing but relief.
Because I knew that she had finally been released from the suffering that had imprisoned her for so long, and that a small red butterfly was flying freely heavenward on a brilliant beam of sunshine.