Little Things

It’s funny that a butterfly looks like a ponderous weight when it’s hanging off a bobbing clover bloom.

At 5:00 it is best to close the sunroom curtains.  I untie the knots and drop the thin white panel over the uncomfortably hot light of the sun setting over the neighbor’s house across the street and even though they are just cheap polyester curtains thumb-tacked up over the windows, to me they are as romantic as satin billowing in on Arabian breezes and that is where my mind goes for just a second each time I cover those windows.  It’s less romantic at night where the curtains are just covering us from the eyes of passersby.  I love closing them in the afternoon, when the setting sun is bright enough to still fill the room with diffused, peaceful light.  Out the northern windows I watch the dramatic shadows in the clover and that’s when I see a butterfly.  It’s orange and black and probably a normal butterfly size, but in the surreal quiet of my room behind the curtains, watching it fly a few feet from the long windows, watching it land on a sweet white clover blossom and seeing the whole assemblage bob over on an impossibly thin vegetable stem, that butterfly seems weighty, ponderous, of note.

The fan above me, high above me for my little square room extends straight up to a folded roof exactly like being inside a half gallon milk carton, rattles intermittently as it creates an artificial breeze to stimulate the curtains.  The drawings of our family as super heroes which my 12 years old and still loving son has given me blow like Buddhist prayers pinned all in row on the wall high above the map of the world, and I love my life where little things can weigh so much.