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Butterfly “Closures,” an Introductory Post

I think of my mother as a butterfly; this is her tattoo, her self-proclaimed symbol.

She quietly swoops upon a stable ground. She flutters her wings as to enrapture you for brief seconds before she is gone. The butterfly is never attached, it is a free spirit. It’s life cycle is very complex, protected in stages before transformation into adulthood.

My mother’s self-proclaimed symbol, so appealing an insect through metamorphosis, could not be further from her truth. However, she does have one thing in common with the vibrant, fragile butterfly: its potential to migrate over long distances. By nature or by nurture, she drew leaps and bounds between us.

That tattoo on her ankle reminds me of the sandals she used to wear in the southern heat. Those sandals on, her short-cut shorts, and her oversized t-shirt. The only free spirit within her she would forsake and abuse for 20+ years, as a victim of adult domestic violence turned enabler and sexual abuser.

The victims? I am a 29 year-old writer with 2 siblings, one 7 years older and 7 years younger. I am a free spirit, in the true sense of the word. Ironically enough, I am the daughter of two insects. That is true. I must find closure from this butterfly, or I must at least seek to forsake the territory my parents have claimed of my past.

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