Monarch in the Garden

Beth sat on the wooden garden bench in the sunshine. A British summer’s day. One of the few months of warmth, between the grey and dreary times.

She felt lonely, she realised, despite the glorious day, despite the glorious bird chatter, despite the pleasing wafts of chrysanthemum, and despite the soothing sound of the fountain. To appease the loneliness, she fed the birds.

From the bench, she scattered bird food in the grass, and watched the sparrows make reckless lunges and hop off proudly with morsels of food. She loved to feed the birds, ever since she was a little girl. It was a connection to nature. You could watch birds in the trees, or see them bathe in bird baths, but you felt a closer bond by feeding them. More than that, today in particular, it was a distraction. Today, she was trying to shake off the lingering despair she felt from a dream.

She tended to sleep more now that she was older. The inescapable draw of closing her eyes was just too much and she would often nap while on her favourite chair. She'd woken with a start, her eyes searching around widely for Henry. Of course he wasn't there, not since his passing two years previously. It took her several moments to realise that, and when she did, it made her feel even worse, and so she came to scatter bird feed.

As she threw the last remnants of feed, the image from that haunted dream came back to her. They'd had an argument, she was angry, and Henry was angry too. But worse than that, he'd said he wished he'd never married her and had flung his wedding band aside. People saw her as strong and kind. But as her lip quivered and a tear edged from the corner of her eye, all she could see was the disgust he'd had in his eyes and feel the venom in his words. He put the ring back on a few hours later, but the hurt was done.

Having no more bird feed, she got up to try and busy herself elsewhere in the garden. She noticed some stones had shifted from the path onto the grass and she tried to use her foot to push them back.

She tried to push a happy memory of their time together into her mind at the same time. It was a habit of hers. Whenever there was a difficult moment in her feelings she would recall at least two good moments to dispel it. Love was a choice after all, and she chose to love him.

She chose to think of his proposal. He'd dropped to a knee in this very garden, confused her by producing an ornate tin decorated with flowers, and upon opening it, monarch butterflies had fluttered free. She'd smiled with the joy of them, and then noticed the ring in its open case within the tin.

She finished moving the stones back to the path, but then saw the weeds in the rose bed, and decided to go for them. Something about the purity of the roses being betrayed by the weeds bothered her. Maybe the groundsmen should be called to do it, but she saw no reason not to right the wrong herself. 

What could her second love-thought be, she pondered. But as she worked, she felt a dizziness come over her. These attacks were becoming more frequent of late. Her doctors weren't sure why. She was not on medication. They were urgently arranging further tests. But in the meantime she wasn't going to let it stop her from living.

After uprooting some pigweed and common purslane, she stopped and tried to stand to take a break, but her legs were unsteady and she stumbled backwards, tripping and falling into the grass.

She knew she was not seriously injured. She hadn't hit her head and nothing hurt. But she just felt weak all over. She wanted to lie there forever. Maybe they would find her like that. The thought of a chalk outline brought a smile, but it was short lived. 

She stared into the sky. Bashful clouds hid from the bullish sun. As it bathed her in its sunlight, she felt herself drying like a prune. 

And then there, in her vision, blocking out the sun and rescuing her from her trance, was a monarch butterfly. It hovered above her, currying favour with the breeze, fluttering its orange-red wings, its black veins like well stenciled ink lines and white dots like aboriginal artwork.

The monarch started to drift away.

"Stay, Henry," she said.

And it was enough for her to try again. She raised her body and pushed up as strongly as she could and was on her feet once more yet still dizzy. There was some darkening of her peripheral vision. But she carried on regardless. 

She smiled as she caught up with the butterfly and it fluttered around her. She put up her finger but it didn't land there. Every time she stopped to admire it, it would move on, as if guiding her somewhere. And she gladly followed. Eventually it landed on a small rock on the ground next to the fountain.

Next to the small rock was a discarded tin. Although she was still dizzy, she felt compelled to grab it. She took a gamble and swooped down with her hand. She felt a whoosh of a drop attack, and stumbled to the side, but managed to hold onto the fountain wall, and regain her footing. But then her legs gave way. Rather than fall to the ground, she managed to sit on the edge of the fountain, the cool stone surface oddy cold in hot afternoon. 

At first glance, she was surprised to see the tin was the same that Henry had used to propose to her with. But upon closer inspection she realised it was not exactly the same but just very similar as if it were constructed by the same company but with a different pattern.

Tentatively, she opened it. Her fingers were not as nimble as they once were, and the rusted old tin was as stiff as her rusted fingers. But, finally, it opened.

There was a single photograph. It was a black and white image without any gloss. It looked to have been developed in an amateur darkroom and not a commercial one. It made her feel even older to realise that commercial film processing shops didn't even exist now either.

The picture was grainy, but unmistakable. It was of their eldest boy, Sebastian. Fingers trembling, she turned it over and on the back saw Henry’s handwriting. It was as familiar as his voice, an untidy scrawl as if he was too busy to write. It read: 

My darling Beth, a photo of our firstborn. Your love means everything to me. Ever yours, Henry

She realised it must have been a gift gone missing all these years. A connection to Henry. To Henry’s intention and decision to keep loving her. She didn’t need to think of a second-love thought. Henry had already done it.

The monarch fluttered up and around her face and then slowly glided down to rest on her hand next to the photo.

“I love you too, Henry,” she said.