the butterflies in march. the premise is simple: every winter needs a silver lining. the powers that be conjure a summer and a nighttime within the grey cold months so that we may be reminded of “things to come”—hope springs eternal. swarms of people line up and congregate to admire the fluttering wings of creatures from warmer seasons. a classic orange in a christmas sock. but the wait is long and the cattle moos; the windows gather the mist of a thousand breaths. the greenhouses are populated by winter coats and heavy boots, rendering to naught any chance to disconnect.
i remember the excursion well. i was in line, waiting, alongside all the others. it was my idea. though i knew, just like the butterflies in march, that the premise was but a sad excuse, a reason for meaning in a void, i did it anyway. i always like to be proven wrong, especially when my right is sad. this was not one of those times. i left with a memory card full of wings and greens, but i was followed by the emptiness of a crowd i could never relate to, and the backache of an unsuccessful escape. still, i at least knew one thing—i knew where my “things to come” belonged.
not there.
hope springing eternal.