Butterflies and Martinis

First of all, I want to welcome two new followers of The Red Sweater:  Elliot MacLeod-Michael at http://appellatesky.blogspot.com/  and Adrienne Scanlon. Adrienne, I couldn't find a URL for your blog!  I you don't have one, start one!




Now to Butterflies and Martinis

It has been a week since I published a post, and I am feeling a little like a slacker, not that I see writing as work.  Being stir crazy and cabin sick has not exactly fueled my creative juices.  Funny, but I thought being on drugs would somehow bring me hallucinations and crazy dreams to write about.  Wrong.  The opposite was true.  My sleep was dark and deep and I woke without a single remembrance of a dream.

I’m off drugs now, and I cannot imagine how anyone could get hooked on Lortab.  When I took enough of it to kill the pain, I got queasy and had to take a nausea pill.  The result was that I was either asleep or awake and miserable.

I do remember a dream from last night.  A hummingbird was in my house and couldn’t figure out how to get out.  He flittered and buzzed from window to window.  I tried to catch him in a butterfly net but was afraid of hurting him, so my efforts were half-hearted.

My dogs were oblivious to the little winged creature and lay around like dogs do all day long unless you are feeding them or playing with them.  I was terrified that my little hummingbird would hurt himself trying to fly through a window, so I called Clint and asked him what to do.  He said to open all the doors, and when I did, dozens of other butterflies came in the house to join their friend.  Their rapidly flapping wings gave the house a pleasant hum, and I was almost hypnotized by it.

It gets weirder.  I finally resorted to bringing their feeders inside so the little Dudes - and Dudettes - would at least have something to eat.  They gathered on the perches of the feeders to suck at the nectar, and one feeder at a time, I took them back outside.  Yes, they just sat there on their perches and let me take them outside.

The whole process took some time - even in a dream world - but I finally got the last ones outside just as Clint was coming in the kitchen door in his green scrubs.  He kissed me, and we went around and closed all the doors, made martinis and sat down to have our nightly “Date Drink.”  

And I woke, feeling warm and all soft inside from my time with Clint, who, as all of you know, has been dead for over two years.  This is the first dream I have had about him from which I didn’t wake crying.  I had touched him, kissed him, shared time with him, and it was just as though he were still alive.

Why can’t he be?  I know the answer,of course, but after all this time, I still want to see him coming through the kitchen door.  At least this is a happy dream, something to fortify me and give me a new hope for healing.

The butterflies?  I haven’t a fucking clue.

© cj schlottman