“…and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.”
There are some things in this world that are simply too fragile to capture. A butterfly would be a perfect example. Its beautiful wings allow it to flutter and fly and capture the imaginations of children and artists, and not a few adults. One must be careful when capturing such a creature. To touch its wings might result in damage to the scales that protectively cover it. Butterflies are best observed from a respectful distance.
I have a similarly fragile creature in my care this year. She is beautiful, intelligent, nervous, and held together with sheer willpower. Her ethereal beauty transcends the outward physical appearance. There is something about her eyes that tattle her secret of being an old soul in a twiggy body. She is a fairy-sprite hovering on the periphery of our classroom society. She watches others with serious eyes and waits to be invited into the warm light of acceptance. Always observing, but never quite inside the circle.
I watch the interactions from a respectful distance as our individuals forge themselves into a bonded group. Even at such an early age, it is easy to see the distinct personalities creating their niche in what will surely be a school career of knowing one another. I do not allow mean-spirited actions to go unchecked or even thoughtless slights. These are all learning opportunities for the young. But being silent witness to their uninhibited interaction is interesting at least, and fascinating at best. They are both wise and immature.
My Fairy Butterfly has allowed very little entrance into the dark tunnels of her memory. When she allows those revelations, they are usually unexpected and heartbreaking. One such glimpse happened very recently.
I was having one of THOSE DAYS. You know what I mean. The kind of day that seems to unravel the moment you pry open your crusty eyeballs in the morning. This particular day had seemed to spin out of control exponentially for hours. We were in the middle of MAP testing, which in and of itself shouldn’t be a huge schedule wrench, but for whatever reason, it was. Those disruptions in our day seemed to throw me off my game and make me feel out of control. It was making me a hair grumpy, if you want to know the truth.
The day was nearly finished and I couldn’t have been happier about it. I was tired, frustrated and willing the clock to fast-forward itself to three fifteen. I remember standing by the worktable trying to get homework sorted out and I swear, all eight voices were talking simultaneously. It was like a gaggle of geese flying low, honking, casting large shadows, and just generally adding to my annoyance.
I stand corrected. There were seven voices at full-volume. Fairy Butterfly sat silent in the midst of that cacophony. I am not sure I can explain this, but out of that chaos, she chose to speak, and inexplicably, my ears heard her. Like the most indiscernible sound waves that a Monarch makes as its wings flutter, so I became aware that she was speaking to me.
Those sad, serious eyes of hers were fixed on my face as I heard her say, “That song makes me think of my puppy that died.” My mind began to race through mental file folders of information trying to recall what song she might be referring to. I came up a blank. “What song?” I asked. “The song we sang in music today,” she replied softly. “My dad ran over him. He was drunk and I saw it happen.” The noise of The Seven faded into the background as the import of her words sank into my addled brain. I understood that she was sharing a traumatic memory with me. This did not happen often. I needed to listen.
When she saw that she had my attention, the dam gates opened a little further. “And he had guns. I saw them.” Her careful mask was torn away now and I saw the raw pain that contorted her face. She needed to tell me all of it and the gates were lifted completely. “And you know the place where you can buy beer? He stayed there all night, and the next morning Foster Care came and took me away.” I was on my knees in front of her now, tears stinging my eyes and threatening to flow as I pulled her into my embrace. Homework and noisy first graders were forgotten for the moment as I wrapped my mind and heart around her pain. I asked her quiet and pointed questions about that time and she either confirmed or denied my fears. Then out of the blue, she wanted to know about lock down. We had discussed that drill and at the time I had tried to carefully answer all those questions that came with such a horrid topic, but at this moment, she needed assurances. Where had that come from? I looked her in her tiny face and promised her that if we had a real lock down crisis, I would do everything I could to protect her. She relaxed slightly in my arms and for the moment, her confessions seemed to have brought a measure of release. I let her leave my aching arms and I stepped into the stairwell for a moment so that my tears could run unchecked as a storm of emotions washed over me.
How does one person begin to know how to apply the salve of healing to such a fragile, broken creature? I instinctively think of my own children. What if my sweet daughter was taken by force and placed in the home of a stranger to live indefinitely? That thought is literally, physically painful for me. It is unbearable to think of her confused, lonely, and crying herself to sleep at night.
And yet, that is little Butterfly Fairy's reality. She is here with me, placed in my path for whatever reason. I try to envision her twenty years from now, an adult with a life of her own. Will she have successfully overcome the obstacles placed in her path? Will she be happy? Will she remember her first grade teacher whose heart was ripped out by a solemn little sprite? I wish future happiness for her with every fiber of my being, but I cannot know her destiny, of course. I can only hope. And I can love. I’m good at loving. I really am. If love propels her to healing and prosperity, then I’m the gal for the job. But I am not naive enough to think it is that simple. There are a thousand different influences, circumstances, and voices that will play into what will become of her.
I only know that I am one small piece of the puzzle of her life. OK then, I hope to be a shiny, sparkling, standout piece. No matter what muck life flings at this tender babe, my prayer is that when she is further down the road, every once in awhile, she will have a faint recollection of a teacher that cooked eggs in the classroom, lead her into a lifelong love of reading and learning, and promised to protect her for the short time their paths crossed.
Will you remember me, Little Butterfly?
I am sure I will never forget you…
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