~summer shorts~ survivor

When swallowtail butterflies wake up in the morning and climb out of their sleeping bags, they sit still and angle themselves toward the sun. They need to warm up, need to absorb enough sunlight into their muscles before they can fly.

There is no way I would have believed you if you told me last summer that I would feel better this summer despite Quinn still not being home. If you had told me last July that he still wouldn’t be home this July it might have done me in. Holding these Julys up side by side, there is no contest. I am no less tattered, but last July I was having trouble climbing out of my sleeping bag.

This July I am sitting still beside the sunlight each morning.

This July I am flying.

Tattered survivors. Pieces torn away. Wings made of something as fragile as tissue paper or gauze stretched across the thinnest wire, would melt in heavy rain, would shred in strong wind, would shatter in a freeze.

I watch them hold onto the flowers and ride the wind.

This July, I am holding on to the flowers and riding the wind.

Leave a Reply

You can use these HTML tags

<a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>