Toward the Garden

“Last night I dreamed about her.”

“Again,” moaned the mother, lowering her head and crossing herself.

The father, in silence, looked at his son, who was sitting in front of an untouched bowl of cereal. After a long pause, he asked him:

“What did she tell you this time?”

“That you shouldn’t worry about her. She says Mom shouldn’t cry anymore, since she is fine.”

The father looked at the mother, who raised her eyebrows as if apologizing. Impatient, he got up from the table, kissed the air above his wife’s head, and put his hand on the son’s. He put on his jacket, picked up a briefcase, and left the house.

“Your dad doesn’t like you talking about those things.”

“What does atheist mean?” asked the boy.

The mother kept silent. Then she said:

“You must go to school. I don’t want you to be late.”

The next morning, the parents were eating breakfast in silence, glancing sideways at the son every so often.

“Last night I dreamed about her.”

“You see?” said the father. “You must take him today. A psychologist will be able to help him. We can’t stand idly by and let him grow up this way.”

The mother, keeping silent, nodded sadly. She wanted to ask the son something, but did not.

“I told her that you don’t believe me. She told me to tell Mom this: the day she died, something beautiful happened, which only the two of them saw.”

“You weren’t there,” interrupted the mother, suddenly flushed.

“I was at school. Dad hadn’t come home from work. But she was there. That day, the two of you were alone in the house. She told me she was in a lot of pain, and that day she understood why. She explained to me that life is like a school: one comes, learns, and leaves. She knew she had already learned her lesson and it was time to go.”

The father, furious, stood up, overturned the table, and tore off his belt.

“Enough!” he shouted. “I’ll straighten this little brat out1 myself, right now.”

He grabbed the boy by the arm and began to whip him.

“There was a butterfly!” cried the boy.

The mother stopped the father’s arm, and, kneeling before the boy, asked him:

“What else did she tell you?”

“That on that morning the butterfly came into the room through the open window and flew to her breast. She saw it, Mom, even though her eyes were closed. She says that you saw it too, that you stopped crying and kept watching the butterfly move its wings gently until it fell asleep. She says the answer to your question is: ‘Yes.’ At that very moment she fell asleep too.”

“The butterfly died,” moaned the mother.

“She told me that you put that butterfly in her coffin, between her hands.”

“You weren’t there,” repeated the mother, weeping.

“She saw it all,” insisted the boy. “The butterfly is over there, next to her. Last night she showed it to me. She told me you wouldn’t believe me. She asked me to bring it so that you would believe.”

The boy took a little wooden box out of his pocket; and from it, a motionless butterfly. The mother turned pale when she saw it.

“It’s dead, can’t you see?” snapped the father.

“She said to take it in your hands, like that day.”

The mother touched the butterfly, which instantly moved its wings. Gleaming in the morning sun, like a little angel coming out of an abyss, it flew through the open window toward the garden.