What I'm Learning From Butterflies
By Alyssa Silvester
One night during dinner in March 2020, my husband lifts his fork to his mouth, pauses, and sets it down again. He exhales deeply and looks at the floor before leaning over our 11-month-old son’s high chair.
“Please don’t forget me,” my husband pleads in a strained whisper, as if choking on his words. He searches to meet our son’s brown eyes.
My son continues shoving spaghetti into his mouth, but I stop chewing.What is he talking about? My eyebrows contract, and my food sits heavy. Today was my husband’s first day back at work, at the hospital at our current Army post near Austin, TX. We just returned from our first family beach vacation; small granules of sand still cling to the bottom of our shoes.
“I’m being deployed in less than a week,” my husband says before his tears escape. “I received an email today with very little information.” He wipes his eyes and continues, “Unknown location, mission,” he grabs my hand, and we lock eyes, “or length.”
His last days on base are not spent caring for patients but instead going through checklists. His duffel bag fills our foyer. His packed plastic bins become temporary furniture, constant reminders he will be leaving—without a scheduled return date.
***
About 17,500 species of butterflies exist in the world, recognizable for their bright colors and process of metamorphosis—beginning life as a caterpillar, dying in a cocoon, and resurrecting as a butterfly.
***
The sun is not yet awake on the morning he will leave. We lay in bed and hold hands in silence, waiting for our alarm. What do you say when you don’t know how long your good-bye will last?
The ringer erupts, and our day begins as if it were any other. In the bathroom, my husband turns on water in the shower and begins to shave while I brush my teeth. The auto-programmed coffee maker kicks on, and the smell of hazelnut drifts upstairs to fill the loft. I go to the kitchen and pour coffee neither of us will drink, wearing pajamas, tears, and worry. My husband finishes getting ready and joins me next to the counter, wearing camouflage, a caduceus, and stoicism. Then, after one final, desperate prayer and a kiss that is both a question mark and period, it’s time.
My husband walks to the garage, his boots dragging on the tile. I run to the front porch in bare feet, cement cold under my toes. His car begins to back out, its headlights temporarily blinding me. I stand, waving like our American flag hanging by my side. In less than ten seconds his car disappears around the corner. I know he can’t see me any longer out of his rearview mirror, but I continue to pump my arm. Back inside, I no longer trip over an oversized duffel bag. My eyes dart around all the space, quiet buzzes in my ears.
During our two months apart, my husband will set up the Javits Center in New York City, save 1100+ people from death by COVID, and receive high Army awards. I will find out our daughter is growing inside me, celebrate our son’s first birthday alone, and start writing poetry again.
***
Butterflies are not typically social creatures; they mostly live and migrate alone. Some gather in groups to locate food and water or stop and rest during migrations. However, most butterflies exist in solitude.
***
Although uncertain of the risk, leaving the house for a walk is my daily escape from the home I haven’t left in over five weeks. Outside, I shut the door to those rooms and leave my obsession over both my unborn baby’s development and husband’s deployment at the front door. Everyday after my son’s morning nap, the stroller click-click-clacks down sidewalks under the sun’s relentless gaze. I am fully present—mind and body—with each step of my tennis shoes and each breath in and out. Through the coming weeks, my son and I watch neighbors build fences and smell freshly cut grass. We walk over hopscotch chalked on driveways and catch errant water drops from sprinklers in yards.
Spring still comes when my calendar flips to April. Bluebonnets display petals and surrender scent to the breeze. Songbirds’ melodies soar through the sky. A butterfly chases the wind, its shadow crossing the street.
I will begin to look for springtime butterflies during our morning walks each day. They seem so unlike the rest of the world, unweighted with worry, as if dancing in the breeze.
***
“Ethan can crawl now!” I exclaim over FaceTime. My son and I sit on the floor in his nursery, and I place stuffies on the other side of the room, urging Ethan to show off his new skill.
“He’s growing so fast,” my husband remarks. “I hope I’m going to be home soon.”
Ethan decides to crawl, and we cheer, as if we were together and not 1700+ miles apart. “I noticed butterflies for the first time today during my walk,” I tell him. “They seemed so carefree, unaware of the pandemic. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”
“One day this will be over. Until then, they can remind us to hope,” he replies.
My husband begins to hunt for butterflies on his walk to the Javits Center, during his last breaths of fresh air before protective equipment swallows him whole. His Army unit partners with other military branches to provide respite for overflowing hospitals in New York City. He spends days reading chest X-Rays, quickly learning the cloud cover in images for those infected with COVID. He organizes schedules for hundreds of doctors who had migrated from hospitals in other parts of the country to care for the highest concentration of COVID patients.
My husband sends me mugs with butterflies on the side for the Mother’s Day we don’t spend together.
***
Scientists have discovered one genus of butterflies, Heliconius, who regularly gather in groups of 4-15. Groups of these large, tropical butterflies from Central and South America can fend off danger more effectively together and protect one another from predators.
***
Six weeks into quarantine isolation and my husband’s deployment, I begin to wonder if I should join a small pod of people. Is it too risky to trust others during these early days of COVID?
***
My son’s first birthday looms. There will be no party, no fanfare, and no one with whom to mark what should have been a momentous and celebratory occasion. My face is red and splotchy, and tears soak through boxes of kleenex. Cool Ranch Doritos and lemon cookies fuel me, making my stomach churn. I spend over $100 on pregnancy tests and pee on twenty sticks to ensure I’m still pregnant. I clench my teeth at night with such force my head throbs during the day. Do caterpillars feel this way inside their cocoons, trapped and alone, without hope of what’s next?
We have a wall hanging in our kitchen with a list of family values. The word celebration reminds me to offer my son what I can. I practice baking a vanilla genoise cake, and my best effort waits for him on his birthday morning—a small round, two layered creation with lemon whipped cream frosting. Multi-color balloons hold my breath, and a birthday banner hangs from his high chair.
Shortly before dinner that day, my phone dings with a text from my husband. “Go outside, and bring Ethan.”
I pull my son away from stacking buckets and open the front door. Early evening sky screams blue, and low hanging sunshine immediately warms my face. I walk onto the porch, standing next to the flag. Cicadas hum expectantly in the distance, but our cul-de-sac is still.
I hear a horn honk before I see the first car crawl down my street dressed in red, blue, green, and yellow balloons. A friend holds a sign that reads “Happy first birthday, Ethan!”
Dozens more cars arrive with blaring horns, fluttering balloons, and birthday signs. Friends throw cards out their car windows, and a few stop to set gifts at the end of my driveway.
“We love you!” “Happy birthday!” friends shout from their car windows as they drive past.
Tears begin with the first horn, and I choke back sobs throughout the entire parade, unable to contain my gratitude.
***
Although most adult butterflies speak to one another primarily through chemical scents called pheromones, some species use sound. Specifically, male butterflies in the Hamadryas genus create loud noises with their wings.
***
One night in late May, I lay in bed trying to fall asleep. I turn side to side, pull the sheet up and then down, and wedge a pillow under my growing bump. Before sleep covers me, I hear a creak and thud downstairs. Can it be? During our daily FaceTime call the day before, my husband mentioned there was a chance he’d be released from his mission as the number of COVID cases stabilized.
My bare feet slap hardwood floors, I turn the corner, and my husband is at the bottom of the stairs, illuminated by the hall light with his oversized duffel near his feet. He wears camouflage, a caduceus, and relief. I wear pajamas, tears, and joy. His arms cover me, his lips find mine, his five o’clock shadow scratches my chin, and I breathe in his rosemary scent.
***
Our family is reunited for two days before receiving orders for an unexpected and unwanted move to “Fort Lost in the Woods”—Fort Leonard Wood, MO—for our last 10 months in the Army. We unsuccessfully fight layers of hierarchy and cocoon ourselves in fear, rage, and grief. Within two months we sell our first family home, pack our belongings, and say good-bye to our pod.
The first morning we wake in our new rental, light chases itself through pines in our backyard. It migrates into the living room, transforming the room into a sanctuary. My son wobbles across the open space on newly walking legs, his light brown curls lopsided from sleep. My husband and I sit on the floor in PJs, drinking fast food coffee from paper cups. The area, the people, and the distance to the closest Target (one hour) is unfamiliar, though the loneliness is not. We can do nothing more than hope our household goods will be delivered soon.
I don’t yet know the future will hold a baby shower thrown by friends I will come to love. I don’t yet realize I will have an ability to hold both sorrow in experiences that seem unsurvivable and a learned capacity to find beauty and connection in its midst. I do know butterflies have become our family symbol of hope.
“Love, look!” my husband shouts, pointing out our open front door. I turn my head.
A mature butterfly bush we hadn’t noticed when we moved in the day before decorates our walkway. She has called a dozen butterflies to welcome us, and I weep.
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Alyssa Silvester is a Type A Midwesterner who cares for her people through home cooked meals and words of affirmation. She lives in Hoover, Alabama—a born Michigander turned Washingtonian turned Southerner through her family’s journey in military medicine—with her husband, toddlers (son and daughter 20 months apart), and two cats. Alyssa loves a good spreadsheet, seasonal decorations and foods, great books, and her Peloton streak. This is her first essay. You can connect with her online at her blog, Alyssa’s Writing.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.