Week 17 — Like a Butterfly

Week 17/52

This isn't normal: I have 28 possible shots for this week. You know what that makes? A WHOLE lot of outtakes. So you get SEVEN of them with this shot. And you'll be getting outtakes every day or so for the next week. I'm sorry about that.

I wanted to do something joyful this week. I finally got my butterflies in the mail, and I instantly knew I wanted to use them; they're probably my favorite prop. And I wish you guys could see them for real, because they're so delicate and beautifully made. They're gorgeous.

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There were butterflies all around us. We had walked into a meadow and a swarm of butterflies had surrounded us, flying all around, landing on our faces, our hair, our hands. I looked at James and saw him close his eyes in delight, letting his head fall back, while David looked at him with adoration in his eyes. I remember smiling at the love my little brother had found in that writer I had introduced him to in one of our nights in town; it was a strange feeling of accomplishment, like I had intervened and changed his fate. I guess that's what we all do to each other, right? We change each other's paths, we form our lives around what people bring to us.

I remember feeling your arms snaking around my waist, and whispering to you "Don't kill any butterflies."

You whispered back "Don't worry, I didn't" and l felt your lips on my neck. It was always like that, the small intimate gestures I avoided in front of everyone else, which you gently forced into me until they didn't bother me anymore.

Ruth was walking silently behind us, as usual, her camera pointed at the beautiful colors around us. At that time, when we were twenty-one or twenty-two, she was obsessed with it, she'd take the old Hasselblad everywhere — even to the bathroom with her, which granted her a few jokes on how she would eventually drop it on the toilet or the sink, and which ended invariably with her hitting Jamie or David or me or you.

This moment, when Ruth took the pictures and you held me against your chest is the only thing that comes to mind now, in this field in Italy, so many thousand miles away from that first afternoon. And while you are the one to turn the camera on me now, I'm not as self-conscious as I was back then.

They're soft, the butterflies; you can barely feel them against your skin. I slowly raise my hand and bring the one that is resting on my index finger closer to my face; she's orange, a Monarch, and it's like she can read me. She jumps and places herself on my nose, and that's when I hear the shutter of your camera.

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One more outtake from the stupid lent novel to try to kill you all from the sheer boredom of it.

I hope you all have a wonderful weekend, and that you forgive me for the spam that will happen in the comments and in the next few days. :)