The feeling of loss is one that reaches the endless depths of the soul. A violent quiver reverberating into the core of bones; of being. Like an endless shiver. But this reaction is inexplicable from one person to another and meaning is lost in translation; for only those themselves know what has dissipated from their world.
When Sarah Myrowski was a child, her concept of loss was that of any other five-year-old. It was simply a butterfly that had vanished back into to the sky. And she loved butterflies; the way their delicate silky wings would flutter in the summer breeze and their colorful animated patterns drawing into various faces. But, as she grew older, her consciousness shifted. Her days of watching the butterflies were starting to retire and so began her journey in reading. She read of treacherous pirates conquering the seas in their forlorn hopes of finding forbidden treasures, of monarchs ruling their lands through terror and bloodshed, and of blossoming relationships which could send the world into chaos. Yet through all of her adventures, she still pictured loss as a butterfly, or even as a feather slowly drifting away.
At the age of 14, Sarah experienced, for the first time, a personal loss. Her grandfather, Charles Myrowski, had finally relinquished his fight against the morbid clumps of cells growing, or rather multiplying, in his lungs. She still remembers her last glimpse into his forbearing soul, through panes of pale glass on a crisp overcast winter’s day. Then, when his miserable casket lay in the open ground, Sarah witnessed her phenomenon; an orange-tinted monarch butterfly lightly landed onto this casket. As she observed this butterfly, it appeared to brighten, and it radiated an energy that sent a thrill through her.
The butterfly eventually twirled off, with parallel grace to a ballerina, and sparkles oscillated off its wings; the way that water transforms into a pool of diamonds under the sunlight. In the years to come, Sarah would ponder whether this was her grandfather’s soul being carried up by the butterfly into an ethereal realm. Perhaps, she wondered, it would become a new star twinkling as a guide in the night sky.
The same cannot be said for her twin sisters Miranda and Bailey. At the passing of their grandfather, neither believed such an elegant story could be true, and their encounters of loss accompanied their cynical nature. Miranda was the eldest by a margin of minutes and irrepressibly failed to mention it. If not born into this era, Sarah thought she would have been a Victorian high-lady, especially due to her constant high-neck posture. Perhaps this is what triggered Miranda’s sensation of loss to be that of an icy tempest of loneliness.
At their grandfather’s funeral Miranda only perceived, even with the warmth of the midday sun, the numbing gusts of wind. She was frigid down to the coronary arteries of her bleeding heart, and goosebumps traversed the lengths of her skinny arms. Not only that, but Miranda was rooted to the ground, feeling the bitter cold seep like vines up into her core. And even after the other relatives left the burial site, she remained frozen to the ground. Miranda couldn’t comprehend how effortlessly everyone receded to their cocoons of habitual life, regardless of their show of tears. Even her sisters had found a way to gather themselves, and she thought; how had they thawed?
Simply; their loss wavered on independent frequencies.
Ironically, and in opposition to her twin, Bailey felt an unending sweltering heat. To her, it seemed that the world was a rusty engine turned by her invariable provocation. And the passing of her grandfather Charles was merely, although not mere, an addition to the mile-long pile of stepping stones obstructing her path. She wanted to bellow, to release a roar of blistering fire that would burn the cemetery’s entirety to a field of ashes. And she felt like she could, because her loss had kindled such anger into a funnel of flaring flame, prepared on a moment’s notice for destruction.
At the funeral, Bailey repeatedly glanced at her glistening skin, as if she would instantaneously ignite. She avoided all those whose concept of condolence was laying a sorry hand on their shoulder and giving a pathetically empty smile, for she feared losing her inferno’s control. When the sun idly set, it’s streaming flares of gold echoed in the reflections of Bailey’s amber eyes. It painted the sky into a dazzling landscape with certainty Charles Myrowski would relish it and drew the sisters together with words unneeded to be said.
The three stood silently together in a perfect symphony; Miranda’s glaciality and Bailey’s fervor balancing into a unity of souls. And Sarah’s butterflies lightening the heavy atmosphere with an unquenchable satisfaction of life. As the days would progress into years, Charles Myrowski would become a salient symbol of their primary personal loss, but moreover the vehement power loss gives to communication. The sisters would be bound, in a wisp of butterflies, to a sense of understanding even through words unsaid.
The feeling of loss, unfathomable, enigmatic until present. Lost in translation, yet develops cognizance and growth between those left behind. And as we gaze at the dazzling night sky, we hope to see the remnant souls who guide us.