By Lee Erickson
Steven Bruns spent all morning
of the mid-summer day of my tenth year,
his eleventh year
(although he was a grade behind me),
capturing Monarch butterflies as they took turns landing
on his mother’s zinnias.
His “ma” appeared occasionally
at the back screen door
in her bathrobe, sagging
breasts nestled into her
see through bright orange nightgown.
It was almost noon.
“What are you god damn
kids doing out there?” she’d yell
her words landing around me
like firecrackers, startling me
out of my comfort.
Before Steven could even answer,
she’d slung back the juice glass filled
Crown Royal she’d used to wash down
the last bit of Pop Tart she’d
nibbled and then she disappeared
back into the shadow of the kitchen.
Steven persisted in stalking and capturing
the monarchs with an old fishing net he’d found in his garage rafters, undaunted
by his mother’s appearance or words.
When the mason jar was
filled with orange and brown insects,
flitting against one another, he screwed the lid on tight, set the jar down and
disappeared into the garage.
I picked up the jar and turned it in my hands
imagining no air
as the monarch butterflies and
the one white moth
he’d mistakenly captured and decided to keep,
struggled in their captivity.
Steven returned,
raised his hand high over his head
and pounded the glass jar from
my hands with a rusty hammer
he’d found in the garage,
sending shards of glass
crashing against the sidewalk path
leading from the house to the garage.
Butterfly pieces were mixed with shock
which were mixed with shiny shards of glass pieces which were mixed with sadness.
“They were all gonna die
anyway,” he said as if he felt he had no choice in the matter.
He continued pounding the
hammer into his fist as he looked for
something else to break.
His mother returned again to the
back door, smiling,
approving of the chaos.
There was a gash in my index finger
dripping bright red blood on the sidewalk and
onto the monarchs and the one white moth
smashed among the ruin.
The tears welled up in my
eyes at the sight of death
and the blood
and I knew he’d
make fun of me
if I cried
so I left,
pressing my fingers together
to stop the bleeding.
I walked the three
blocks or so back to my house
where there would be grilled
cheese on the stove and a band-aid.
I stepped carefully on the sidewalks
trying to avoid
breaking
my mother’s
back.
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