Paper Butterflies

Whimsy, wallflowers, and Wonderwall. Send me a friend to save me from it all. No longer will I stand to the side. I will run onto the floor of my life and dance a whirl. However, at present, I am a mere flower delivery girl. My days are spent between the florist and seventeen-twenty Wintergreen Street. The rumble of my bicycle over cement mixes with air intoxicatingly sweet. I ring my bell as an announcement to the world that from today onwards I will change. 

“Always good to see you riding along and ringing your bell, dear girl.” Calls a shopkeeper who sells sage. Okay, I admit, I pass here every day. I ring this bell every day. Without delay, I arrive at delivery locations but change never does the same. It is always just me. Change never arrives. A rusted wagon swerves at the behest of my bicycle. With each turn, flowers flail their leafy fingers. Desperately, they try to gain purchase in this chaotic life. I brake and the bouquets lurch forward - carried by fast-life momentum.

Here we are. Seventeen-twenty Wintergreen Street. The bane of this flower delivery girl’s work day. Each day, without fail, she orders a wagon full of flowers. And, each day, without fail, I deliver them. Seventeen-twenty Wintergreen Street is a bookstore, if you can believe it. Though, in this bookstore, there are currently more foxgloves than stories of tamed foxes. I pull the door open and a bell chimes. As routine dictates, I call into the land of fragrant dust and ancient times. “Miss Silvy, your flowers have arrived.” “Coming,” a faint voice drifts between hard-backed Murakamis and over delicate daffodils. 

Miss Silvy’s bookstore never fails to astonish me. Whether it be contemporary, fantasy, or poetry, they all contain their own unique philosophy. By now, they have not only overrun their bindings but their bookshelves as well. Piled high, the books nearly touch the ceiling painted as the sky. Then, there are the flowers. I could do without the flowers. Simply looking at them prompts a prolonged yawn. They remind me of bouncing bicycle tires and monotony. I cannot bear to see them pouring across each and every surface. Too much, it reminds me a bit too much of myself.

Miss Silvy crashes through a wall of bouquets and fumbles her way to greet me. Each unsteady step sends flowers raining from her bird-nest hair. The storeowner smiles to her cheeks. “Shall we begin?” The bell above the door chimes and chimes and chimes. Flowers move in one after another after another. Eventually, I ask the inevitable question. “What do you hope to accomplish with all this?” Her smile deepens. “The same thing as everyone else.” Then, her smile dissipates in an abrupt instant. “I cannot remember the last time I saw a butterfly. They do not cross my path anymore.” At last, I close the door to leave. And, the day resets.

Whimsy, wallflowers, and Wonderwall. Send me a friend to save me from it all. What this entails? Honestly, I do not have the slightest inkling. No longer will I stand to the side. I will change; I will run onto the floor of my life. Boldly, you will see me dance a whirl. However, at present, I am a mere flower delivery girl, as I always am. My days are spent on an endless loop. Without end, I travel between the florist and the bookstore. The bicycle rumbles and rumbles along. I ring my bell as an announcement that from today onward I will change. As I always do, I ring my bell in hopes that today will be the day it finally comes true. And, as always, the shopkeeper selling sage calls out to me as if reading from a page.

As a result of extensive practice, I arrive at each delivery location without delay. My routes are so familiar to me that the creases of my hands have taken to mimicking their way. I memorize the details I pass to picture perfection. The tempo of the wagon’s rattle, the sway of the flower’s stems, I know it all. I know the count of chickadee chirps and the number of clouds that take turns to cover the sun. At this intersection here, a little boy loses a yellow balloon to the charm of the sky. Directly after, a photographer catches a picture of the balloon as it meets the clouds up high. The events after that are a pure mystery; because I then turn left onto Wintergreen Street.

Here we are, yet again. Seventeen-twenty Wintergreen Street. Miss Silvy’s bookstore. The bane of this flower delivery girl’s existence. Each day, every day, this day, today. I wait for a while outside the store. Perhaps, this time, it will be different; perhaps she will open the door first. Beyond the window, I glimpse more black-eyed Susans than stories of Susan. With futility, I worry whether the precariously towered books will tumble down. I know, with certainty, that they will not. Resignation seeps in and I yank open the door. A bell chimes. I lean into the store and smell the unstable fusion of dust and flowers. Reluctantly familiar. “Miss Silvy, your flowers have arrived.” “Coming,” her voice drifts between hard-backed Kafkas and over delicate daisies. Then, as always, we unload the bouquets while flowers fall from Miss Silvy’s hair. Those dreadful flowers. I never want to lay my eyes upon or smell one ever again. But, I always do. 

Like a river has no choice but to flow downhill, I ask the inevitable question. “What do you hope to accomplish with all this?” She smiles deeply. “The same thing as everyone else.” Then, her smile fades. “My mother loved butterflies. But, she stopped seeing them and I stopped seeing them. I just want her to see them again.” There it is. A change. This is the one piece that is different every time. It is my favorite part of the day. I try my hardest to cherish this moment though I do not know how. Therefore, I close the door to leave. Time spins back and the day resets.

Whimsy, wallflowers, and Wonderwall. Send me a friend to save me from it all. Do I really need someone to save me or can I save myself? Would it be easier to dance if I were the one to make the music? I am a whirlwind. However, if you only give me a glance that is less than a moment, I will appear to be only a mere flower delivery girl - the same as I have always been. I spend my days in the in-between. Ever am I between floriculture and literature. The same soundtrack spins on repeat, mostly percussive with a melody as sweet as the air - here and there. My bicycle rumbles, the wagon rattles, and the chickadees chirp. Additionally, I never forget to ring my bell. It is an important announcement to myself that from today onward I will change. This one action keeps me sane amidst mundane monotony. And, one of these days it will come true.

The sage seller calls out her greeting and I spare him the wave of my hand. An especially loud rattle sounds, right on time. At the cue, I turn westward to better hear the third-to-last chickadee chirp. I see the ever-so-familiar intersection come into view and pedal urgently. This time, I catch the yellow balloon’s string. It had only been a second gone from the little boy’s tiny hand. The photographer captures a picture of me rather than the sky or land. Then, all proceeds as it always does. I turn left. Two more chickadees chirp and one more cloud obscures the sun. I ride over the cement - a little giddy this time, that is something new. My favorite part of the day is coming soon.

Here we are, as always and always to come. The bookstore at seventeen-twenty Wintergreen Street and bane of my existence under the sun. Hurriedly, I open the door and the bell chimes. “Miss Silvy, your flowers have arrived.” “Coming,” her voice, as usual, drifts between hard-backed Martels and over delicate dandelions. I wish Miss Silvy would act with more haste. The sooner she bursts through that wall of bouquets, the sooner we get to the moment, that moment. After excruciating minutes - of that there are only a few - she finally makes her unforgettable entrance. 

Then, something happens. The unexpected; the unimaginable; the unheard of. It is Miss Silvy who presents the inevitable question. “What do you hope to accomplish with all this?” “The same as everyone else,” I answer reflexively. She smiles from the corners of her lips to the tips of her eyes. “I don’t need those flowers anymore. I am done waiting, without end, for butterflies to arrive. I have decided to make them myself.” With that, Miss Silvy gestures to the sky-painted ceiling. Only then do I see them. Origami butterflies dangle from thin strings. They decorate the entire ceiling - vastly more than I can count. They flutter and fly more beautifully than any butterflies I ever remember seeing before.