Kill it! Screamed my mother. Get it out! Yelled my siblings.
Stampeding on the plastic-covered furniture where sitting was extremely prohibited, we stood and treaded swatting at the beast with brooms.
We wanted to deal with the winged creature as soon as possible, a creature whose black wings were saturated with dust so much so that it would taint our fingers as we reached for it. Finally a splendid swat of the broom and there it went. Spiraling to the floor.
With much disgust, my brother and I scooped the revolting winged creature with an old “New Yorker” and, upon tossing it out the door, we shouted in unison HA! Get out! I don’t remember any other scenes of family panic such as these including the Northridge earthquake of ‘94 or when I sliced my finger with a chef’s knife. In both occasions the hysteria became apotheotic.
Nah, man—as my brother would always say just for the sake of contradiction—this was of tsunamic proportions! Well, that’s not a real word but to each their own terminology. The fact of the matter was that after turning the house upside down with the intent of slaying the fluttering fiend we began to hang the thick cotton curtains, we leveled the picture frames and diplomas and other plaques, and what not, that commemorated, celebrated, and cheered individual accomplishments ranging from high math scores, perfect attendances, and the first college degree of the family. I remember putting my shoes back on and, embarrassingly, noticed that my right big toe peeked through a hole in my sock. My mother, with a hint of shame as well, asked me to hand it over so that she would patch it up tomorrow morning.
No doubt that the brief moment of insanity brought with it a bonding and group solidarity at least in what remained of October, just before celebrating the Day of the Dead. The only person who managed to remain silent, observant, and, it seemed, a little disgusted by the sudden surge of testosterone was my sister Lidia.
She loooooved to antagonize us in any way she could so her reaction was expected: Those creatures never hurt anyone, You could have been more humane and trapped it with a trash bag as to not hurt its wings, You should’ve set it free so it could continue living, blah blah blah. And honestly, God knows what other idiotic conservative concerns of hers that at the time were unfitting for our wild human instincts of superiority over any specie such as these giant black butterflies.
A year went by, I remember it quite well, and the final days of October waved by as we ushered the first days of November. And how could I forget…we got the call, just like that…no warning, that Lidia, my dearly loved sister had had a car accident while her boyfriend drove and that she was smothered and turned to a pulp.
After the burial we all went home in dire sorrow. As the rest of the family prepared dinner, it was the second eve of the dead, as was Mexican tradition, when my aunt warned that a giant black butterfly, so big that its shadow flapped on the walls, had gone in the house. At first, taken aback, there was a contained commotion. My brother and I turned to each other and felt we had the strength to deal with the creature once and for all. Then the memory of Lidia crept into my mind. Her image, sitting there still, immutable, antagonizing our wild urge to extinguish species.
I took a big trash bag the color of our grieving garbs, I approached the butterfly who fluttered its wings as if it were breathing through them, I stood on a stool and caught it with ease. I got down and went outside to let it free and it flew away into the cold November afternoon wafting way into the wilderness of wherever. And then, with more tears coming out my nose than my eyes, I said Goodbye to my little sister whom I loved so much.
No comments:
Post a Comment