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.
