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Catching Butterflies
It was a beautiful field. Overgrown with tangled, unrecognizable weeds and small, snaky vines, it became a safe haven for me as I grew older and older. When I was out there, there was no rainy day. The sun always beat down onto the dry, cracked path that my grandpa and I created, ceaseless and unending. Time itself seemed to stop and watch the little six year old girl in messy pigtails and her white haired grandfather coming back day after day. The summer days were always the best. On the hottest possible days, we would go outside, carrying huge nets, containers, and licking opsicles. Walking the small distance across my neighborhood to the field gave me the greatest joy. When I got there, the wailing of the sirens from the distance seemed to fade until nothing, disappearing with everything I had ever worried about. There was only the quiet left. However, the more I came, the more I realized that the quiet I heard wasn’t even close to silence. Standing in the long grass and scratching the numerous mosquito bites on my legs, I heard the true song of nature. The buzzing of unseen bugs, the sway of the leaves, and the hum of the birds created the perfect balanced harmony. I would sit there listening, thoughtfully licking the last bit of my popsicle and wiping the cherry stains on my shirt. And then, the real fun would begin. The nets my grandpa and I carried made sense as the last part of the nature harmony fit in. The butterflies. Catching butterflies became more than just a game to us. It was a sport. We would always start off simple, carelessly capturing the foggy, white butterflies. Even with my chubby legs, I got them easily as they landed on the rightest wildflowers or on the ground. We would carefully place them into the basket my grandpa was holding, where it was already filled with dried grass and flowers. After a while, we would occasionally spot a rarer yellow butterfly. Faster and smarter than the white, it danced gracefully out of reach almost every time we tried to get it, but that didn’t mean we stopped trying. Laughing, my grandpa and I would run until we were both sweating under the fiery sun. We would stay out there at that hastily-made, abandoned field for hours, finding it hard to part. It would be late afternoon by the time we finally were ready to go home, the sun just starting to sink from the newly-born horizon. I would listen the natural harmony one last time, and my grandpa and I would slowly, carrying our basket full of mélange butterflies and the occasional dragonfly, home. We would open the basement door and come in to the dim coolness, breathing in a sigh of relief at the air conditioner. Afterwards, we would open the basket of insects, and one by one, they would slowly fly out of their cramped prison. They always flew to the open window , where the light was the brightest. My grandpa and I would count our catch for the day as if it were an extremely vital job, sorting each fluttering butterfly out by color. Sometimes, when we had enough time, we would each pick out a butterfly or dragonfly, and take it to the far end of the basement, and let it go, racing to see which one would get to the window faster. I would be rubbing the powder from the butterfly’s flaky wings over my eyes and onto the furniture for hours afterwards, to the dismay of my mom. But at sunset, when the day was about to be over, my grandpa and I would gently collect the insects back into the basket, and take them outside. One by one, I would release them gently into the air, where they were hesitant at first, but quickly grew in speed. It was an almost perfect image, watching the chain of butterflies steadily fly off towards the setting sun. This happened for the next two years. Some days, we were too busy to go. And over the winter, it was impossible to go at all. But I found myself thinking of that place every day, that messy, beautiful field. People thought I was crazy for wanting to go to such an unruly place. They couldn’t see why I would want to do the same thing every day, catching butterflies only to let them go. But my grandpa always understood. To us, there was something different in every day going out to the field. There would be a new sight, a new sound to hear. No one could understand the joy we felt of capturing a particularly big butterfly, or just being out there an hour longer, but us. Most of all, we listened to the quiet, and the beautiful sounds that came from it. I remember clearer than anything else the day the field disappeared. It was only a couple weeks after winter ended, after the snow finally melted. I ran towards the field with my grandpa close behind me as fast as I could. It had only been a few months since I’ve seen it, but it could’ve been years. I needed to see the field again, to let it fill me with the sounds and peace I never felt anywhere else. But when I got there, I only saw yellow. Not the yellow of the small, dainty wildflowers dotting the field, or the yellow of the quick butterflies. Only the yellow of the construction trucks. For a moment, I just stood there. The loud sounds of construction sounded like nothing to my ears. I could only listen to the silence. |
抓蝴蝶
這是一個美麗的地方。滿地長著糾纏一起的無法辨認的雜草和小小的彎彎曲曲的藤蔓，隨著我一天一天的長大它變成了我的一個安全的樂園。每次我到那裏的時候，天總是不會下雨。太陽總是炙熱地燒烤著我和姥爺踩出來的幹燥的破裂的小徑，而這小徑彎彎曲曲無休無止。時間自己好像在駐足觀看一個留著雜亂辮子的小女孩和她的白發姥爺爺天天來來回回往返在這片野地上。 夏天的日子總是最好的。在可能是最熱的日子裏，我們會到外麵去，提著大大的網子籃子，邊走邊舔著冰棍。走過那段穿過鄰居到野地的小小距離總是給我帶來最大的歡樂。當我到了那裏的時候，遠處的尖嘯警笛聲似乎隱約到什麽也聽不見了，消失到沒有什麽我可以擔心的了。野地隻留下來安靜。然而，我來的次數越多我越意識到我聽到的安靜不是那種接近於寂靜的聲音。站在高高草從之中不斷抓撓腿上被無數蚊蟲的叮咬癢痛，我聽到大自然的真實樂曲。那看不見的蟲子的嗡嗡聲，揮灑搖擺的葉子聲和鳥兒的哼鳴聲創造了一首完美平和的自然交響曲。
這時我會坐在那裏聽，若有所思地舔完我的冰棍的最後一塊，擦去滴在我襯衫上的粉色汙點。然後，真正的樂趣就開始了。我和我姥爺拎的網子使得完成大自然交響曲最後一節變得有意義了。是，抓蝴蝶。抓蝴蝶對我們不僅僅是一個遊戲，它是一種運動。我們總是從簡單隨意地抓捕霧狀白色的蝴蝶開始。即使我有小胖腿跑不動我也很容易抓住那些落在明亮的野花或在地麵上的蝴蝶。 我們將捕的蝴蝶小心翼翼地放進姥爺拎著的填有幹草和鮮花的籃子裏。過了一會兒，我們偶然又發現一隻罕見的黃色蝴蝶。它比白色蝴蝶更快更聰明，他優雅地飛舞著，我們試圖每一次的抓它但抓不著，但我們依然沒有停止努力。我們笑著跑著直到我們在火熱的太陽下大汗淋漓。我們一直在那雜草叢生的遺棄野地呆上幾個小時，不舍得離開。到傍晚的時候我們終於準備回家，而這時太陽剛剛開始從新生的地平線下沉。我這時會最後一次聆聽一下大自然的交響曲，然後我和我的姥爺慢慢地拎著我們充滿各種蝴蝶和偶爾還有蜻蜓的籃子，回家。 我們打開地下室的門，進入昏暗冰涼的房間，呼吸一下空調房間的涼氣。之後，我們會打開籃子把昆蟲一個接一個的放出來，讓它們慢慢地飛出自己局促的監牢。他們總是飛到光線最敞亮的窗口。我和我姥爺會數一數我們當天抓捕的蝴蝶，從顏色來分辨各種翅膀還撲棱著的蝴蝶的種類，好像是在做一天最重要的功課。有時，如果我們有足夠的時間，我們將各自挑選出一隻蝴蝶或蜻蜓，並把它帶到地下室的一頭，讓它們飛，看看哪一個會更快地飛到窗口。隨後幾個小時，如果媽媽允許，我會將蝴蝶翅膀上呈片狀的揉粉抹到我的眼睛和家具上。 但在暮色已晚當天即將結束的時候，我和姥爺會輕輕地將昆蟲們采集回來放回籃子裏，然後把它們帶到屋子外麵。一個接一個，我會輕輕地將它們放飛到空中，開始它們還會在哪兒稍作遲疑，然後它們會加速地飛走。這是一幅近乎完美的景象，一串串的蝴蝶鏈穩健的飛了出去，飛向落日的方向。 抓蝴蝶這事一直進行了兩年。有些日子，我們太忙了去不了。而在冬天，我們是不可能去的。但我發現每一天我都在想著那個地方，那個雜亂美麗的曠野之地。人們以為我是不是瘋了想要去這樣一個不守規矩的地方。他們不明白為什麽我每天想要做同樣的事情，抓住蝴蝶隻是為了讓它們飛走。但我的姥爺總能理解。對我們來說，每天去那個野地總有不同的收獲。每次去哪裏會看見一個新的景象，聽到一個新的聲音。沒有人，除了我們，能夠理解我們捕捉一個特別大蝴蝶，或者隻是想著哪裏多呆一個小時時所感受到的喜悅。除此之外最重要的是，我們在聆聽那種安靜，那種從那裏發出來的美麗的聲音。 我比什麽事都記得清楚那個野地突然消失的一天。那是個在冬天結束後的幾個禮拜的一天，雪已經完全融化了。我帶著緊跟在我後麵的姥爺飛快的跑向那片野地。幾個月前我還看過這裏，我確認不可能是幾年前。我需要再次看看這個野地，好讓它充滿我內心不可能從別的地方感受到的聲音和平安。但是，當我到了那裏，我隻看到了黃色。不是那小的纖巧的野花點綴的野地的黃色，也不是快速飛舞的蝴蝶的黃色，而是施工卡車的黃色。那一刻，我隻是站在那裏。建設工地的隆隆響聲在我耳朵裏麵什麽都不是，我隻聽見寂靜的聲音。
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