RED BUTTERFLY

It was a slightly different day. Warm breezes. A blue sky. The occasional chirp of some feisty squirrel searching for an acorn to crack. And the sun. On this day it seemed to smear the brightest sheen across everything green in eye-shot. Even the earthworms seemed to drag themselves onto the cement streets just to get one second of the sun's shinning bounty.

And then it happened: Mister Softee and his truck. Blowing its horn; ringing its bell. Sending children running across their yards for the Orange Push-Up, the three-colored Star Pop, any sugary fix that would rot their teeth, and ultimately send them crashing into diabetic sleep, dry-mouth and all.

Little Ray Smithens wasn't impressed by this slightly different day. And he knew deep in his heart, the three-colored Star Pop could never satisfy the longing that fed on his droopy eyes.

Today was the day when his father was said to return. From where he never knew. The reason he left, Little Ray never asked. All he knew was he and his mother and baby brother lived alone on Stewberry Circle. In a three bedroom ranch-style house with red carpet and a brand-new Amana stove. And on special nights, his mother would tuck he and his brother under the sheets, kiss their foreheads, and promise pancakes for breakfast. And then go into her bedroom and cry.

So although this day was slightly different, it was no different than any other: his father would never show.

But then it happened: as Little Ray sat on the curb and stared at the other children licking fudge bars, his mother appeared at his front door, pointing toward the sky, shouting, "Look, Little Ray, look!" As melancholy as possible for a child, Little Ray turned his head toward the direction of his mother's finger. And there he saw it: high above the trees, millions and millions and millions of red butterflies. So red they looked like flying candy drops. So red they cast a ruby tint across the grass. The other children grew silent; Mister Softee turned off his engine. And Little Ray just stood there. Knees locked; mouth in awe.

He could hear the telephone ringing from his kitchen, but it didn' sway his trance. Suddenly, one of the children called out: "Grab one, Ray, grab one." And he did. He reached his short arm into the air and snagged one by its wing. It fluttered at first. But then seeming to sense a steady hand and a good heart, it just rested on his fingertip. So sweet it looked. One of the other children giggled, "It looks like blood." But Little Ray didn't care. He actually wanted to taste it. To see if it was as red and sweet as it looked. And right as his tongue was about to swoop the quiet red drop into his mouth, his mother swung open the porch door and cried out, "Little Ray, your father. Your father's on the phone!"

Without losing focus, Little Ray's eyes teared up. And the little red butterfly flew away on this slightly different day.

Until next time,

Keith

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