A young man sits alone on a park bench. Around him are children playing, parents admiring, lovers walking hand in hand. He does not notice. He sees only the emptiness of his own life, and tries not to think- about anything.
The man needs a shave, a bath, fresh clothes. He needs the aching in his head- brought on by the misdeeds of the night before, and many nights before that- to please just go away. He needs reason and purpose, but feels neither.
A shadow flits across his eyes, but he does not look up. Annoyingly, the fluttering shadow returns. With irritation, he finally focuses towards this intrusion on his self pity.
A butterfly- neon in color, exquisite in beauty, silent- catches the young man's eyes. Transfixed, he follows it's flight. Into view comes the children playing, the parents admiring, the lovers walking hand in hand.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the beautiful butterfly is gone.
The young man now sits, very aware he is not alone. He tries desperately to think- about everything.
Years later, an older man sits on a park bench, admiring his children as they play. He has walked there, hand in hand, with his lover. If you ask him, he will readily tell you about reason and purpose.
And even if you don't ask him, he may very well tell you about the value of butterflies.
The man needs a shave, a bath, fresh clothes. He needs the aching in his head- brought on by the misdeeds of the night before, and many nights before that- to please just go away. He needs reason and purpose, but feels neither.
A shadow flits across his eyes, but he does not look up. Annoyingly, the fluttering shadow returns. With irritation, he finally focuses towards this intrusion on his self pity.
A butterfly- neon in color, exquisite in beauty, silent- catches the young man's eyes. Transfixed, he follows it's flight. Into view comes the children playing, the parents admiring, the lovers walking hand in hand.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the beautiful butterfly is gone.
The young man now sits, very aware he is not alone. He tries desperately to think- about everything.
Years later, an older man sits on a park bench, admiring his children as they play. He has walked there, hand in hand, with his lover. If you ask him, he will readily tell you about reason and purpose.
And even if you don't ask him, he may very well tell you about the value of butterflies.
The Value of Butterflies
By E.C. Miller
By E.C. Miller
