Peter’s Butterfly Bush
We had a little flower growing in a pot amidst the very busy morning glories by the jelala. It did not belong there. I knew it was some kind of bush, but I did not know what. I gently removed it from the pot and asked Peter if he would please plant it on the edge of the lawn. He did. It became his own special flower, his child. Everyday whenever he went to or came back from work, he would stop by it and pull a few weeds. He would gently smooth the earth around it and smile in delight. He watered it and tended it so lovingly. It gave him such great pleasure. It became known as Peter’s bush. It really was not a bush at that stage. It seemed to struggle to grow big. Peter encouraged it along, loved it and gave it tender care. He practically doted over it. Then Peter passed away!
When Peter passed away, I crawled under a dark cloud of shock and disbelief. I couldn’t understand why I was still here when he was not. I just sat there, day after day, waiting for him to come and take me to him. Nothing mattered to me but that I should die as well. I neglected everything around me, patiently I sat, waiting to die. The next summer I was still waiting. I stared into space and did nothing. Peter just did not come to take me. As much as I willed it, he would not come!
Two years passed, three summers. I began to notice our beautiful garden was dying. I felt saddened for all the plants that had perished. All the care that Peter and I had taken to tend to them had gone to nought. I looked around the garden and noticed the bags of soil and the forgotten pots that lay abandoned in one corner from the last time we gardened. That was two weeks before Peter had so suddenly passed away. I remembered with what pleasure we had cared for our garden. What was I doing? Why had I allowed our beautiful garden to slowly die? I recalled the hours we planted; the trips we took to the different nurseries and to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens where we bought our Burning Bush. People stop to admire it and all the lilac trees that perfume the air in spring. I remember how we entertained in our garden; the intimate tête-à-têtes we had. We planned breakfasts and dinners, we laughed and dreamed. I was allowing all that to disappear. No! No! No, I simply cannot do that!
Gradually I began buying plants. I would buy one or two, then a few more. One at a time I planted them. Little by little the garden revived. In the meantime, Peter’s little bush fought valiantly along. Kelly and I built a fence around the house, two years ago. He built it and I stained it. I think Kelly was trying to draw me out of myself, he was trying to get me interested in what was going on around me. He tried so hard, my poor son. He suggested the fence would give the dogs room to play and give us another sitting area. In building the fence, we had to move Peter’s bush. Now it sat by the new area. It seemed to like company, living against the fence by the slider where I sit now. Some mornings I take my book and my cup of tea, delighting in the dawning of the new day. The bush on occasions leans towards me as if in greeting.
It has been raining this week. This morning I noticed that Peter’s bush has grown so much taller and so much stronger. Its little face with its cluster of pink flowers peeks inquisitively over the fence! I suddenly realize what it is. It is a butterfly bush! No wonder all these amazingly beautiful butterflies are flitting around it in our garden.
Peter, you will be proud of your bush. It is a fighter. It is now tall and beautiful. When you first passed away, each time I came to visit your grave, butterflies fluttered about. It comforted me. It made me feel as if your soul is soaring straight up to heaven and the butterflies are accompanying you.
When we used to sit in the garden, I remember thinking how much pleasure the butterflies gave us and how you always commented about their beauty. So now we call your bush, Peter’s Butterfly Bush to go with Peter’s White Lilac Bush. It is almost evening now. The birds are singing, the breeze is cooling the air. If you were alive, you would be coming home soon. We would sit on the glider by your butterfly bush, slowly rocking back and forth. You would listen to the rustle of the breeze and the trilling of the birds. You would lean your head back in contentment and smile your beautiful smile as you relax. You would say what you always said, ‘’Aah, it’s good to be home.’’
The skies would darken and the moon would shine and the fireflies would magically twinkle in the evening sky and the butterflies would tightly furl their wings about themselves as they slumbered in your bush.