Read Out of The Woods for Free Online

observe one of the more dramatic waterfalls. The outside edges of the falls were bounded by large, black rock, furred with green and yellow lichen. Bushes and small shrubs held on as far as they dared. At the inner face of the waterfall, where the water roared down thickly, only weedy grass could survive, growing tightly in rock crevices, hanging long and lush and rebellious in the abundance of fast-flowing water. Halley imagined climbing up the waterfall, feeling the cool flow of the water against her skin, using the bushes and rock to pull herself up. Her eyes moved downward to explore the river bed at the base of the falls. “Butterflies…” she whispered, in surprise.
    Hovering over or resting upon the rocks, were a multitude of butterflies, their wings the blue of sapphire. They were outlined by the finest of black lines, as if drawn in at the last moment with the thinnest brush of a very careful artist. This black edging gave them just the slightest bit of substance, for their blue seemed ethereal and holy. Grouped together as they were, they made the world seem abundantly full of butterflies. Gossamer-winged. The river lent a slight, wispy fog to the air. Halley stood and watched the butterflies, her brow suddenly furrowed with concentration.
“Butterflies! Butterflies!” she was shouting. She was four, and her voice had the enthusiasm and volume of someone new to the wonders of the world. “I’ve never seen so many butterflies in my whole life!”
Her father smiled as he raised a finger for quiet. “Shhh – you’ll scare them off. These are called Ceylon Blue Glassy Tigers.” He paused, as if for emphasis. “They’re a very special butterfly.”
Her daddy knew everything! All about plants and all about some strange place called Asia, and even how to climb the rocks that surrounded their mountain home. She knew this because of the thrilling bedtime stories he told her, all about his adventures.
And now it seemed he knew about butterflies too. He held her small hand tightly in his large one, and she felt very safe, and very, very loved.
    Halley – the grown-up Halley – was shaking: her parents were dead. Their memories were carefully tucked away, like a cherished wedding dress preserved in tissue paper. As if they would crumble if taken out and held, turn to dust in her fingers. The memories of how much they had loved her were tucked away so tightly that she could no longer feel the strength of their love. Or, more importantly in her view, the pain of their deaths’.
    The butterflies made her miss her father with a sudden, wrenching ache. Grief soared through her, flaming and searing. Her arms wrapped around her of their own accord.
    I still don’t understand death. I could never really believe I wouldn’t see them again. Speak to them again. The finality of that silence between us unfathomable. Unbearable.
    She watched the butterflies, and rubbed the wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
    I don’t want to look. I don’t want to think of them.
    Nevertheless, the memories came fast: her father riding a bicycle he’d altered so he could sit upright to see more of the world; her mother buying the most useless, most vibrant items at neighbors’ garage sales; their Sunday walks; the cluttered home that never got light no matter how many lights they switched on.
    So much I miss. So many things I wanted to say, that I’ll never get to. She closed her eyes. So many things in my life they will never get to know. Why did you have to die, damn you!
    When she opened her eyes the butterflies were still there. Her stomach wrenched with the urge to throw something into their midst. She swallowed hard and looked down at her muddy green hiking boots and the rough stone bridge under her feet.
    The butterflies flew: they were not concerned with her anger; they were simply butterflies.
    “I love you, very, very much.” Her mother had written that in a birthday card. Halley had forgotten about the card,