Sister wears a dragonfly necklace and
sometimes speaks with the butterflies.
Cherokees called them messengers of
the dead, she explains with calmness
and describes her visit with a medium,
who told her things no one could guess.
She hesitates to continue with her story.
I tell her how lately dragonflies land
nearby when eating a meal outside,
as I stop to rest with a bottle of beer
in my backyard after mowing the lawn,
at a ball game on a seat in front of us.
Too many to count hovered above the
dunes as I walked down to the beach.
Others say butterflies come to them in
places you wouldn’t expect, city streets,
the middle of the night, in a rainstorm,
on the tip of a finger as you begin a hike.
Suddenly images of these insects appear
on coffee mugs, labels of wine bottles,
neckties, on front of some baby’s shirt.
Must’ve been there all along or maybe
I’m seeing them after hearing the medium’s
words to me from our father- “Don’t feel bad,
let it go, stop feeling remorse”. How could she
know of my regrets since his death or the last
time we spoke? I told no one of my feelings.
I think of dragonflies now as my pen runs dry.