Painting

My sister, my brother and I are sitting on the faded yellow carpet painting. We are excited because there are now four of us instead of
just three. We are painting cards to take to our new brother in hospital. Mine has a picture of a house and a garden and a white bear walking down a path. My sister leans across to wash her brush in a
jam jar of cloudy water and as her brush passes over my card a tiny spot of brown paint falls and lands in the middle of my bear. The imperfection is barely perceptible but no amount of consolation or assurance that it is still a worthy offering will pacify me. Between my sobs I rip it up and throw it in the bin. That night I had my a nightmare about falling through swirls and swirls of dark green paint.

The next day I walked in the June heat to the hospital in my pale green dress with white butterflies on. The heat and the chalk and the quiet of the private gardens; it was a last streak of normality.

All the white butterflies took off, freeing themselves from the fabric of that day and circled high before turning to flee Mount Alvernia forever. Then the garment loosened itself and blew into the past and I myself slipped into the obscurity of history.