The thing, you see, about butterflies, is that they can't hear.
After we lost Frankie, the pretty flying things quickly emerged as the theme to my sister's wedding, a tribute to our deaf brother.
A few minutes after my sister and her new husband exchanged vows and were pronounced man and wife, we all followed them to the rockery, in the gardens surrounding the chapel.
I read a little piece about wishes and butterflies and ancient Native customs. I read it in English, and my aunt read it in Italian, and then my 10-year old cousin from Italy raised the top of a golden box and twelve gloriously beautiful Monarchs were set free.
My sister, who had no idea that we'd arranged such a thing, was overcome, not only because it was just so very, very beautiful but because one of the butterflies landed in her bouquet and stayed all afternoon. It stayed during our family pictures, it stayed during the bridal party pictures, it stayed and it stayed and every so often, flapped itís wings, re-positioned, and stayed a bit more.
Finally, the photographer said, "Alright, now just the bride and groom." And in a flutter of black and orange, the butterfly flew away.
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