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By: Peter McGuire
PROSE POETRY
Editor: Kylie Catena
When Lou was very young, he fell ill. He was sick for weeks, drifting in and out of consciousness in his big brass bed. He dreamed he was the Monarch, his great pumpkin and marigold wings filtering the sun into a stained-glass sunset. He danced among the tulips in his mother’s flower boxes, dappling the day with dusty pollen. He felt luxurious. Eventually, the fever broke, but Lou would always remember the sensation of being a butterfly.
Although Lou was a fine student, he was a better mechanic. He’d grown up tinkering with the Pontiac straight-8 engine hanging from chains in the shed that seemingly belonged to no car. He earned his full union membership in a few years and had enough cash to take a different girl to the drive-in every week. Most didn’t even mind that his fingernails were permanently blackened.
Life flew by. But in the dream, Lou was a butterfly.
Lou lived much like his dad: long days at the factory, short nights with TV and beer, weekends full of barbeques and long drives. He admired his sons’ creativity, their curiosity. It inspired him to see more beauty in the world. The older son had a much easier time in school than his younger. It broke his heart when the elder got his college admissions letter and the younger a draft letter.
But in the dream, Lou’s huge wings flirted and flitted amongst flowers.
The elder son had returned from school tired and gaunt. He’d failed out of classes and wasted his scholarship. He didn’t say much, but Lou could put the pieces together. Weird friends. Adjustment issues. Drugs. Who didn’t do drugs? The Michigan winters were hard and long, but they were a family again, and the furnace worked fine. Lou’s son swallowed his pride and picked up a wrench. The two men connected in a way they never had before. By Spring, he’d made enough money to get his own apartment. Exactly a week later, a neighbor found him cold, with the needle still in his arm.
But in the dream, Lou drank sweet nectar and fruity juices. He rode on mighty wings from flower to flower.
Ten years later, Lou’s wife and best friend died. A darkness had clouded her left eye. The doctors showed the two of them a blurry picture of a head and diagnosed her with brain cancer. She’d only just started chemotherapy. They said it was bad luck: a random bleed caused by the tumor. They’d already booked tickets to Paris to celebrate his retirement.
But in the dream, Lou saw a world of brilliant colors through compound eyes. He tended to his mother’s tulips.
Eventually, he took up walking. Lou lived in Florida now. The retirement community wasn’t nice by any means, but he had everything he needed: a kitchen to make coffee, a nice bed, and a nearby garage that let him tinker on his ‘47 Indian Chief whether it needed repairs or not. He was the talk of the town: an absolute widow magnet. When he walked, he collected a crowd of admirers in their velvet leisure suits. They reminisced about their favorite drive-in movies. Twice a year, his remaining son and grandchildren visited. When they visited, they had more grandmothers than they could ever want.
But when he slept, Lou was a butterfly. And when the dream was over, the butterfly flew away.
Peter McGuire
For more information:
House of Grief
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