The Butterfly Room

Life seems so permanent, as if our houses are solid and our hearts will always beat.  I visited my grandparents over the weekend, sleeping in the same room- green, blue, dotted with white butterflies- as the one that once held my crib. Everything seemed so unchanged. Only the gradual yellowing of the framed pictures showed the passage of time.

The garden there still grows. The model train track holds steadfast in the ground. The sculptures, authentic rugs, and masks decorate the walls; pieces from all over the world create familiar organized clutter. I will admit one thing has changed. I am finally allowed in the portion of the house that holds my grandmother’s most prized possessions. But I will amount this new responsibility to simply being a perk of growing up and not of change.

My aunt, on the other hand, just sold her house. My cousins have always lived at that same address- a brick house, close to the playground where we played basketball and ultimate frisbee. My aunt had grown her own beautiful garden and made her house just right- a kitchen for company and a basement, with its blue shaggy carpet, for the cousins to hang out. It had all seemed so grounded, so solid, so unchanging. Isn’t it strange how the hard floor beneath our feet and the walls holding strong against the wind are not permanent aspects of our lives? Just because things are solid does not mean they will always be there.

I am lucky. I live in a life filled with seemingly permanent things. But only for now.