Day the Twenty First

Out, Out, Brief Candle

And so, we enter Thanksgiving week.

This also means we have only ten more days to go with this little experiment in daily reflections that you’ve all honored me to attend. The next week will be full of family visits and other real-life happenings so my time here may be short.

There are many ways to approach the Thanksgiving holiday, but I’ve traditionally started with an exercise in remembrance.

I’d like to share that with all of you today, and I hope you’ll consider participating in the comments below. Let’s move into the holiday week with loved ones on our mind.

I wrote this story several years ago and it continues to come up each year around this time. I present it here for you today, with a few tweaks and edits, in the hope that the primary take away from this week will be gratefulness and family peace.

Three Little Deaths

We find the monarch near death in the middle of a wide pedestrian mall. The poor creature is shivering, jerking its wings for the final few times.

“Daddy, the butterfly is hurt!” You don't even hesitate. You bend down, and gently pluck him from the pavement, letting him rest in your palm. “Can you help him?”

Mexican tradition offers some way-markers when navigating the stages of death. Generally, there are three: the moment you realize you are mortal and will die, the moment you do actually die and the final time someone remembers your name.

The day is coming, little one, when that first death will be upon us and our conversation will exist in the realm of your first real existential pain, and you'll understand not just that we die but what that actually means. We're not there yet, but we're close. I dread the day.

For today, however, I get to eye level with you and explain that this little fellow has likely led a good life, has filled people's hearts with happy colors and the beauty of his fluttering, but now the time has come when he will die. “We can't help him, baby,” I say.

And there's a pause, an aching moment where you consider this truism and you watch, stock still, this delicate creature in your hand begin to take its last breathes. Suddenly, I feel like maybe we've crossed a line, like we just left behind the little girl I knew and are starting from scratch now, different, slightly colder.

But you reach out a finger and run it along the outside of his wing and move your little face just inches from your palm. “Poor baby,” you say. “Daddy, can I put him by a flower, he'll like it there.”

I nod. And I scramble to think of all those I loved, all those who have died twice, whom I can prevent from final death. I say their names. I write them. Ceil. Joseph. Fred. Florence. Teddy. Mary. Viola. Fritz. Joey. Alan. Annette. Sara. Nabil. Cindy. Renuka. God, the list is long.

The three of us stand there for a few seconds, watching the butterfly. You've tucked him into a planter, near some flowers, on a soft bed of bark mulch. Momentarily, he'll die there.

And the last experience that fragile creature will have had in its short time on earth will be that of the compassion of a three year old girl with big round eyes and warm hands.

Who do you remember? I'd like to hear their names. Let's start this holiday week with remembrance and give them all a chance to live on just a little bit longer. Tell us their names below to honor their memory. Onward!

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If you’ve enjoyed Day By Day through the month, perhaps you’d like to check out my bookstore. Books by local authors make great gifts and the holidays are upon us!