Butterflies
and Angels
July, 2016
The
room is large, a sunny sitting room. Two high-backed, upholstered chairs flank
a low, round table cluttered with framed family photos and a smattering of
mail. A single bed nudges up against the far corner. That's where I find Betty.
Three months from turning ninety-nine, and so small now, I wouldn't know she
was under the blankets if it weren't for her sleeping face and white clouds of
hair resting on stacked pillows.
Every
time I visit her, she has melted just a little more.
"Hi
Betty. It's Carol."
Eyes
open just a bit.
"Hi
Dear."
Eyes
close.
"I
love you, Betty."
"I
love you, too, Carol."
I pull
up a chair next to her and find myself holding her hand, watching her breathe.
I ask
if I should leave so she can rest. She says No.
I have
lots of time to be here. So quiet. Only the breathing, closed eyes, silken skin
draped over bone, and I love you.
So what
is it that I love? Memories of our times past? Maybe recollections of wise
words and her gentle being, like a nurturing mother. It could be the way she
has loved all things butterfly, and the gifts she brought me at birthdays and
Christmas—mostly angels who now protect every corner of my massage room. Blue
ceramic cherubs, angels made of feathers, Willow Tree angels of Peace and
Healing.
Beside
her bed, a wedding photo, taken about a year ago, has Betty in the center, the
place of honor, between her grandson (the groom) and his bride dressed in
white. Betty's son and daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren stand
on either side. It seems so right, this placing of pure love, disguised as a
white-haired woman named Betty, at the heart of one's new marriage.
I turn
again to the small figure in the bed. A deepening inward stillness seems to be
preparing her for the next flight.
For me,
it's a time to begin to learn what Betty has lived—that love loves, and it
doesn't need a reason.
Carol
Barrow
July,
2016
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