The meadow lay beneath an azure blue sky filled with summer sun, the kind that we remember from when we were young a memory of happy times, times of freedom and laughter. A narrow stream traced its way through the grasses, water whispering over stones as it had done long before lives got complicated.
They walked slowly, side by side, not speaking. There had been too many words in recent months, and not one of them had been able to mend what was broken. Their child, bright, stubborn, full of laugther, had been taken by a sickness that showed no mercy for prayers or plans.
As they crossed the meadow, their steps stirred the flowers. Small white butterflies lifted all at once, rising in a soft cloud around them. For a moment the air seemed alive, filled with pale wings catching the light, circling as if curious, or cautious, or kind.
One butterfly drifted away from the others. It settled on the woman’s outstretched finger, light as breath. Its wings opened and closed slowly, resting there, utterly unafraid.
They stood very still. The stream continued its quiet work. The sun held its place. The butterflies settled back onto the meadow, returning to the nectar of the meadow flowers.
The one on her finger flexed its wings once more, turned, and lifted into the air. It rejoined the others and was gone.
The woman did not move. She only whispered, for the first time, so softly it barely shaped the air
“Goodbye, Róisín.”