Butterflies in the Park

She was sitting alone on a bench in the quiet side of the park, an old black woman – enormously and nightmarishly fat – wearing a faded yellow sun dress with a matching bandana and a pair of house slippers.  Every inch of her was misshapen and swollen and decayed-looking.  In one hand she held a fistful of sad looking daisies and in the other a bible, even from a distance I recognized the black leather cover and the gilt edged pages.  As I got closer, I could see she was crying – weeping, actually – her shoulders heaved with each ragged breath and now and again she dabbed at her eyes with a remnant of a mucous-y handkerchief.  Passing her by would’ve been the simplest thing I’d done all day but I found myself slowing down and then stopping.

Ma’am, I said cautiously, Do you need some help?

She raised her head to look at me and I saw that her eyes were puffy and red rimmed.  A thin streak of blood ran from her nose to her upper lip.   She shook her head almost violently.

 Are you sure? I asked and took a small step closer. 

I’s fine, she said clearly and it was something between a hiss and a reproach, Mind yo’ bizness, girl.

 I wasn’t sure what if anything I’d expected but being snapped at wasn’t it. 

Yes, ma’am, I said hastily and stepped back onto the walking path, Sorry I bothered you.

The late afternoon sun shimmered through the trees as I finished the first lap and started the second.  By the time I reached the bench again, she was gone.  It was hard to believe she could have navigated out of the park in so short a time and without my noticing – it’d have been like overlooking a large yellow blimp – but there was no sign of her.  When I straightened up from splashing water on my face and neck at the water fountain, I could’ve sworn I saw a flash of yellow in the little patch of trees at the edge of the street but when I blinked and looked again, it was gone.  I walked a little slower, cooling down and cooling off, and twice more saw a sliver of yellow – once by the footbridge and once on the far side of the playground – each time when I looked again, it was gone.

Imagination, I told myself, Heat and sweat and old eyes, but I still felt a tiny thrill of eerie as I walked toward the street in the direction of home.   The innocent late afternoon had turned gently to early evening and the lengthening shadows seemed to have a shivery undercoat of something not quite right.  I stopped at the entrance to the park and took a final look behind me but there was nothing even remotely out of the ordinary – trees and empty benches, children and dogs, walkers and runners and strollers – it wasn’t until I turned back around that I saw the ragged piece of yellow fabric snagged on the black iron fencing.   When I reached for it, the breeze carried it off.  I blinked and it turned into a butterfly.

Earth is a place of limited illusions ~ Ryan Formanes