Butterflies

Therein lies the real magic,

in being able to observe small

children in their innocence

become exposed to a world

that is unkind,

cold and unabashed,

all the while somehow

smiling through it, somehow

loving unconditionally

until life makes them place

conditions on love.

But for now—

for that short instance

in the history of time—

there is magic

in each smile

and every giggle.

The sun peeks through the canopy of tree branches, playfully casting a shadow at the tree’s base, where it lingers along the crisp edges of leaves. They’re on the verge of falling, a thrill that fills the air with anticipation. I giggle, imagining they’ll fall on my head like fluffy clouds that vanish. My giggling surprises a flutter of butterflies as they fuddle in the breeze above my head, their wings a kaleidoscope of color and movement. Excitedly, I jump up from the grass, its coolness clinging to the back of my black dress and naked knees, and titter with careless abandon to catch one of the more colorful butterflies that captures my attention.

I scurry between the tombstones, almost reaching the butterfly. I laugh loudly, high-pitched, and too excited for the occasion that brings me here, chasing the butterfly that’s always just out of reach of my stubby fingers. Its wings click in the breeze, a medley of black, gold, and white in different shapes scattering too quickly for my short legs. I chase it as it circles a tree, disappearing behind a mausoleum where the dead sleep with their families, as Papa says.

But Mama is buried under the dirt without her family, so no one finds her. When I asked Papa why she had to hide, he said it was like a game of hide-and-seek, only with fate. I smiled, Papa’s words like a game, and then ran through the cemetery. I run around the sharp corner of the crypt, the butterfly floating away like a marionette strung by the wind that carries it, and I race to follow. I jump up, my fingers nearly touching one of its gossamer wings, but the butterfly slips away in the breeze, mocking me because, between the jump and the stretch, I lose my balance and fly into the short distance between height and space.

Papa will get upset if I mess up the pretty black dress Darius had strewn on my bed when I woke up this morning.

But before a tear or a stain is made, strong hands grab me by my arms and steady me. I’m quickly set upright but lose sight of the butterfly. I’m unsure if I’m sad I didn’t get to touch its wings or upset that it flew away because of my clumsiness. Papa says clumsiness means I’m growing, and my body is just trying to get used to the changes. I smiled widely. Blinking rapidly, I glance up, wide-eyed and slightly breathless, at a tall, dark-skinned boy older than me, with hair coiled in dreadlocks that reach his shoulders. They’re as black as the darkness behind my lids right before I fall asleep, but his eyes are so gray they remind me of a Winter sky. I don’t recognize him, but I like his light gray eyes that stare with an intensity that shimmers in the air between us even though it’s a warm afternoon. His eyes feel like the cold right before a snowfall. “I like the Winter,” I declare brightly.

The intensity in his gaze lightens, and his full lips stretch to an awkward smile like he doesn’t know how to do it well. But then he says, “Me too.” His voice is growly, and he frowns, but I giggle because I can feel it in my chest. My heart beats faster.

“I like your eyes. They remind me of the Winter sky when it’s swollen with falling snow that covers the backyard in pretty whiteness. Then Papa and I make piles of snowballs, and we ambush Mama when she comes looking for us.” I giggle happily as the warm memory spreads from my heart to my fingers and toes. “Somehow, Mama always beats us anyway.”

The boy’s smile falters, one side of his lip pulled back, revealing sharp incisors, and I gasp because I instantly remember my dentist appointment. The boy instantly presses his lips together but doesn’t speak. “Doctor George says that I need to brush my teeth twice a day,” I declare. “You have sharp teeth.”

He frowns at my comment and quickly adds, “Sorry.” I blink rapidly, hoping I didn’t hurt his feelings. The boy sighs and squats in front of me. I lean into him because he doesn’t look mad. Up close like this, I see his eyes are two shades of gray.

“Hey!” He opens them again, and I squeal. “Wow! Your eyes are so much brighter now! Like there’s a flashlight behind them. Can I do that?” He closes his eyes quickly, and we blink together because I want my eyes to flash like his, even though he seems annoyed with himself. “You’re different.” I grin because I like different people. The boy doesn’t reply, but I wait for it anyway because Papa says that I talk too much and need to learn to wait for people to think things through until they’re ready to speak before I keep talking. He says that silence doesn’t always have to be filled with my chatter, and waiting is the polite thing to do. So I wait politely as I shift my weight from one foot to the other, eagerly hoping he’ll open his Winter eyes again.

I smile eagerly when he does and finally says, “Different… how exactly?”

I laugh and say with quick breaths, “Your voice is all growly again and it rumbles in my chest. Like when trucks pass in front of Reagan’s house. She’s my best friend who lives closer to town, and sometimes we pretend it’s an earthquake and hide under the table. But then Reagan screams that the earthquake has opened up a hole and lava is pouring out, and we jump from couch to couch so that we don’t get burned.” I laugh as Reagan’s red, bouncy hair comes to mind. “Reagan is so much fun! Are you so much fun?”

The boy watches me for a few seconds before he replies, “Why do you say I’m different?”

He didn’t answer my question, but I shrug deeply, my shoulders reaching up to my cheeks.

I pout because he doesn’t want to play Hide-and-Seek, but I answer his question politely because Papa says I should always be polite, even with rude people.

“Mama is playing Hide-and-Seek with fate. That’s what Papa says even though I don’t understand. I feel smart saying it, though. I know she’s underground, but I don’t want to play where she is because it’s probably dark and cold. Papa said she’s hiding underground where no one can find her.” My chest clenches tightly like I’m holding my breath even though I’m not. I haven’t seen Mama for several days because she has to hide even from me. I blink rapidly and stare at the boy, who’s frowning again.

I press my stubby fingers along his brow until it’s smooth, then smile widely because I really want to play. “I like to play in the park, like this one.”

“Your mother is Diana Sylphine?” the boy asks quietly as if saying her name might burn his tongue. I giggle even though my chest tightens again at the mention of Mama’s name.

“Yeah! But Papa calls her Sylphy.” I pause, his eyes holding mine until I feel warm again. “Do you know her?” His face becomes serious, and it makes him look older. It’s the same look Papa and Mama make when someone calls, and they have to go and leave me with Darius, Mama’s friend who gives me the heebie-jeebies because his white hair is too long, his skin is as white as paper, and his eyes are so light blue that sometimes they look like they blend with his skin. But he lets me eat candy and watch movies way later than my bedtime, and he’s more scary-looking than scary.

“Would you like me to take you to her?” I don’t wait for an answer as I grab his hand, warm and slightly clammy. My hand is smaller than his larger one, but I must be stronger than him because I’m the one who’s leading him. I skip to where Papa had been greeting Mama’s friends, who are different like the boy is different.

“What is your name?” he asks, walking much taller beside me. He doesn’t skip along like I do because his legs are longer, so I quickly catch up to him. The boy’s big hand is warm around mine, making me smile even though he’s not smiling.

“I’m named after my mother,” I boast. “But it’s spelled differently. Mama says it’s because it’s pronounced in Spanish: Deeana. Isn’t it beautiful?” I look up at him and smile proudly when he nods. “Papa calls me Dee-Dee for short. I hate it when some of the boys in my class call me Doo-doo instead.” I scrunch my face, instantly annoyed. “That means poop!”

The boy doesn’t comment, so I glance at the blue and big sky stretching as far as I can see, a blanket over my head in Winter. The sky makes me happy again as the boy and I silently head deeper into the cemetery park. I stretch my hand to the sky, but they aren’t blue when I bring them back down. I hope that, someday, I’ll belong to the sky. I had asked Papa why my fingers don’t turn blue when I reach up to touch the sky, and he said it was because the color of the sky only belongs to the sky, and I’m not of the sky yet.

I smiled widely because Papa likes to say things I don’t understand but must mean something. He says I’ll know when I’m old enough. But I haven’t yet, even though I’m older now. Finally, when we reach the group of gloomy people standing around Papa, with their droopy eyes and long faces, it strikes me that he, too, looks long and saggy. I want to run to him and give him a big hug because Mama says that Papa loves it when I run and jump in his arms for a hug. But the boy tugs me back.

“That’s my Papa,” I announce eagerly when I look up at his Winter eyes.

His eyes are bright again when he asks, “How old are you, Deeana?”

I giggle because I like how my name sounds when he growls like that, and I readily say, “I’m six! My birthday was two months ago so I’m almost seven now!”

He glances away but seems unhappy with my response, so I blurt, “You’re sixteen.” He glances back at me in surprise, and I’m happy that he no longer looks upset.

“How do you know?” he growl-whispers.

I shrug and say sing-song, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I really like it when your eyes glow.” I giggle at my cleverness as I swing our hands. Papa says I’m too clever for my age. When he sees me, his smile is sad. His eyes widen at the sight of the boy walking tall beside me, my hand warm inside his.

“Papa, I made a friend!” I cry out, pulling the boy towards Papa. His strides are much longer than mine, but I can keep up because I’m quick. I remember the time I beat Andy in a race, and he was upset with me for days until I shared my lunch with him. Then, we were friends again, and he even let me read his Captain Underpants book. Papa’s eyes are serious, a look he only wears when he’s upset. I frown. “He’s my friend, Papa. Look!” I raise our joined hands and beam. “See! We’re friends!”

Papa is quiet for a few seconds, his upset eyes on the boy, before he asks sternly, “Who are you?” The boy stiffens, and hot waves rush up my arm from where his hand has tightened around mine. I’m not scared because the heat warms my cheeks, and I smile at the sensation. I hold tight when he tries to let go of my hand until he stops tugging.

“Malcolm Jaeger of the Shadow Pack in the northern territory,” the boy says. His voice isn’t growly anymore, and I already miss it. I do like his name, though.

“The bastard son,” is whispered with disdain, and I gasp. I don’t fully understand the word, but I know it’s not a nice thing to say.

“Papa says that’s a bad word,” I chastise. “You shouldn’t use it.”

“My father, the Alpha, sent me to offer his condolences for the loss of your wife.” Malcolm stresses the word father.

“In exchange for my daughter?” Papa accuses, and I’m surprised by his tone.

“But he’s different, too,” I defend the boy. “Like Mama’s friends are.” Papa’s eyes widen, and he glances back at the rude people watching my new friend as if he’d done something wrong.

“Did he tell you that he was different, Dee-Dee?” Papa asks slowly, and I laugh at his silliness.

“Nope,” I boast, sensing Malcolm’s admiration. “I just know.”

Papa glances at Malcolm again, then seizes my hand from his. I tug both our hands away and offer Papa my other hand. “I want to hold his hand.” I say it maturely, sounding like a grown-up—no play or joy in the cold words. Malcolm briefly squeezes my hand, and the coldness slips into his fingers. I look up at him, his eyes locked with mine, and smile brightly.

When I turn back to Papa, his eyes bulge as he stares at me with eyes that don’t dance like stars the way they usually do. And there’s no silliness in his expression like when we play Giddy-Up, and I squeal on his back as he bucks like a horse. These eyes are shifty, like when coyotes come too close to the house with their glowy eyes and yipping howls. I tighten my hold on the boy’s hand, and he finally entwines his fingers with mine. My stomach clenches and feels funny, and my chest is rumbly like when he speaks, except he’s not talking and I’m not talking, but I still feel him in the middle of my chest.

Papa looks at Malcolm again, but his expression changes into something I’ve never seen from him before. He looks so scary that it hurts my chest where the boy’s rumble had just soothed. “What can a bastard like you offer for such a prize as her?” he speaks to the boy in disdain, and I scrunch my face, ready to scold his rudeness.

“Protection.”

My father scoffs, and Mama’s friends come closer, agitated and with glowy eyes like the boy’s but not beautiful like his. I can feel something wild inside them wanting to rip to the surface, just like I feel when the coyotes reach the edge of the treeline onto our backyard. It makes my skin cold and goose-bumpy, a shiver of fear running down my spine.

“Papa?” I ask but move closer to Malcolm. Malcolm growls, but not the same as when he speaks. This growl is deep and menacing, but I’m not scared because he’s not mad at me. It’s a warning to Papa’s friends because they sound like the wild animals I watch on Discovery Kids when Peppa Pig is over. Malcolm slowly guides us in a circle, distancing us from the others, but Mama’s scary friends encircle us, leaving no escape route.

“I offer my protection and vow my life for hers,” Malcolm says, his voice the growl I like. I wrap my arms around his waist, trembling because I want to go home and want him to come with me. I want to find Mama again and tell her to talk to Papa about his rudeness, as well as to her mean friends and their potty mouths.

“I have protection,” Papa scoffs without emotion, like a robot without a heart. It scares me more than Mama’s friends.

“Not mine,” Malcolm challenges. “I will protect her with my life every day of hers. I know who she is and you know who she is to me. I will wait until she’s of age and then she will take her place among us and choose for herself.”

“How do you know of her?” one of Mama’s friends says meanly, a man with too much hair and not enough warmth in his small, beady eyes. I want to stick my tongue out at him, but Papa says that’s not nice, and I don’t want to be mean to his friends like he’s being mean to mine, so I keep my tongue in my mouth.

Malcolm doesn’t reply, and I glance up at him. He’s looking at me, his Winter-sky eyes glowy and expressive like when I hug Mama around her waist and lean my cheek against her belly and can feel her warmth on my cheek. Malcolm squats to my level, and my heart races when he growls my name.

I giggle, put my fingers against his throat, and whisper, “Say my name again, Malcolm. Say my name again!” His smile, not awkward or stiff, is soft, lightening his face and making me happy because he’s happy.

“Deeana,” he murmurs, each syllable climbing up my belly, where happiness lives. It touches the tips of my fingers and then travels under my skin in a warm wave that reaches down to my toes.

“Malcolm,” I reply softly. I place my hand over my fast-beating heart and smile. “My heart feels like it does after I race Andy and beat him in the school playground. I’ll tell you about it someday.” His eyes glow, and he growls low in his throat, like a rough purr. I giggle, happiness rising in my belly like soap bubbles big enough to burst. I smile and nod fervently. “I told you, Papa. He’s my friend.”

I glance at Malcolm, who stares at my father like I stare at the boys in school when I’m faster than they are. I’m giddy with excitement that he’s earned something, although I’m not sure what. Papa observes Malcolm in confusion and worry. It tightens his expression so that wrinkles form on his forehead. I want to laugh because he looks like old man Ralphie who drops off groceries at our doorstep. But I know it’s rude to laugh when no one knows why I’m laughing, so I hold my lips tight to fight the urge even though I have to keep my breath in my stomach to tamp it down.

Papa’s gaze shifts to mine, and I think I’m busted, but his eyes soften, and he smiles. It’s not his usual cheerful grin, but it’s genuine. He briefly looks at Malcolm’s larger fingers intertwined with mine. They look odd but feel warm and comforting. They feel like Family Night on the couch watching Zootopia between Mama and Papa—like Malcolm has always been my friend, and I didn’t just meet him.

Papa bends down on one knee and speaks, his voice slow and laden with a sadness I can’t quite grasp. His words carry a weight I’m not yet old enough to understand, but they hurt. “Now that Mama is no longer with us, would you like a pet wolf to play with at home?”

Malcolm stiffens and his breathing hitches like he’s offended, but I squeal with happiness and scream, “Yes! Yes!” I tug at Malcolm’s hand until he looks at me, his gray eyes darker. “Will you come see my wolf when I get him? Please.” My new friend doesn’t respond immediately because he looks at Papa again, his eyes the color of a thunderstorm, but then he glances at me, and my heart beats faster when he does that.

He smiles softly. “I’d love to be your pet, Deeana,” he says quietly, the growl in his voice rolling in my chest, and nods once at my father. I giggle because he said it wrong, but I don’t tell him because Papa says it’s impolite to correct people in public since it might embarrass them.

I look up at the boy with the Winter-sky eyes and serious face and smile so hard my eyes squint because he’s my new best friend, and we’re going to play hide-and-seek and chase butterflies with my pet wolf.

“I hope he has your eyes,” I whisper into his ear when I pull him down. “And he’ll look at me the same way you do.” He shivers, and I smile happily.

Like snow in Winter

you leave me breathless with hope

I’ve fallen for you