This small miracle was a kind of transformation in itself
As I sat by my father’s bed in the hospice, holding his hand in the final hour of his life, I found myself talking about butterflies. But who really knows what to say at the end? He was seemingly insensate, his vacant face unfamiliar and chilling. For the first time in my life he didn’t quicken to my attention, didn’t rise to the occasion of being Dad. I told him that I loved him and that I wouldn’t leave him. I kissed him. I wept. And then I told him about a small tortoiseshell I had seen in his garage just two hours earlier.
I didn’t tell him it was the separated wing of a dead butterfly, a memento mori buried behind a pile of logs I was shifting for my mum. The significant thing was that I had named a butterfly. Just a few weeks earlier, Dad would have considered this a small miracle. He was probably hoping for a more useful miracle in that particular moment, but I am sure I felt his hand flex in mine. For once he wasn’t in a position to doubt my identification (to be fair to him, until that summer, I would have said it was the wing of a red admiral). But he didn’t need to question me any more. A transformation had taken place.
Continue reading… This small miracle was a kind of transformation in itselfAs I sat by my father’s bed in the hospice, holding his hand in the final hour of his life, I found myself talking about butterflies. But who really knows what to say at the end? He was seemingly insensate, his vacant face unfamiliar and chilling. For the first time in my life he didn’t quicken to my attention, didn’t rise to the occasion of being Dad. I told him that I loved him and that I wouldn’t leave him. I kissed him. I wept. And then I told him about a small tortoiseshell I had seen in his garage just two hours earlier.I didn’t tell him it was the separated wing of a dead butterfly, a memento mori buried behind a pile of logs I was shifting for my mum. The significant thing was that I had named a butterfly. Just a few weeks earlier, Dad would have considered this a small miracle. He was probably hoping for a more useful miracle in that particular moment, but I am sure I felt his hand flex in mine. For once he wasn’t in a position to doubt my identification (to be fair to him, until that summer, I would have said it was the wing of a red admiral). But he didn’t need to question me any more. A transformation had taken place. Continue reading… Butterflies, Bereavement, Insects, Wildlife, Life and style, Health & wellbeing, Psychology, Environment
