R.D. Harris lives with his family of four in Arizona and works as a biomedical technician by day. He loves the Carolina Tarheels, time with his kids, and SpongeBob. His work has appeared in Little Blue Marble, Terraform[Motherboard], and Galaxy’s Edge magazine.
***
We were hidden in his garden, where he wanted to die. The garden in our hollow where he taught me about life and how to be a man.
“Dad,” I said, tears blinding me, “you know where we are?”
His fading cognition and memory broke my heart. My hero and life-long role model couldn’t remember who I was half the time.
Eyes half-open, tired, Dad said, “On the ground,” with a mustered grin.
I couldn’t help but laugh. It was bittersweet, though, as the shimmering caterpillars squirmed from their vegetable meals to my dad’s girth atop the tilled soil. They scaled his body from all sides and froze on his stomach, waiting until it was time.
I cradled his half-bald head and whispered, “We’re in the garden like you wanted.” I kissed his forehead.
“The mimics?” he uttered, eyeing the larvae that patiently waited for him to pass on. Dad’s memory was serving him well. I hoped it would serve the mimics too.
I nodded. “That’s why you chose the garden, Dad.”
“Yeah.” He spaced out, then reeled his awareness back in. “Hope I did good in raisin’ ya,” he said, through a violent cough that nearly bucked a few caterpillars.
“You did,” was all I could choke out.
He stopped speaking. His body was tired, ready to rest.
Breaths became shallow and sparse. Over the prior months, I knew the moment would come for him to pass, but fear was just starting to set in. Who would I go to for advice? Would I be able to take care of his house and garden by myself? I tried to stay in the moment and block out the questions scattered in my head.
Silence filled the garden. The rise and fall of my father’s chest had ceased.
The mimics went to work.
An orderly procession was formed, forking off at my dad’s stubbly chin. One line entered a nostril, the other through an ear. I couldn’t hear them or see them, but I knew they were feeding on Dad’s frontal lobe in the privacy of his skull.
I covered his body with a bed sheet I’d brought.
Several hours went by before the caterpillars crawled out. As daylight waned, I watched them scale nearby dogwoods to pupate. The mimics would emerge from their chrysalides in three weeks to grace the garden.
*
It was Thursday. Just over three weeks had passed since dad died.
Urn in hand, my walk to the rows of tomatoes, corn, and squash was unhurried as I took in the beautiful afternoon, looking for the butterflies. Humid as the June day was, I’d decided to spread my father’s ashes around the garden like he wanted.
A mimic tickled my nose as it fluttered by.
I chased its spanning wings with my eyes as it joined a congregation in the sunflower patch that lined the garden.
Setting down the urn, I walked heel-toe in a hushed pattern, past the squash and cucumbers, to the radiant flowers. Mimics are tolerant of people and the elements, but I didn’t want to agitate them the least bit. I wanted to admire the fruit of their larval labors.
My weeping was abrupt upon staring at the first set of wings and I nearly startled the butterflies. I couldn’t help it as I heaved with grief. I missed my dad.
The hues and fine venation of that particular mimic, on that particular wing, formed a minute mural of Dad and I at the county fair. He was holding my hand as we walked by a Ferris wheel. I was smiling up at him, smeared red from a candy apple, like nothing else in the world mattered. Nights at the fair were among my own favorite memories as a child.
The other wing showed a younger me, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. Not sure which birthday it was. My face was slathered, again, with a dessert ingredient. Cake icing if I had to guess. I snorted a quick laugh and shook my head.
I tiptoed among the flowers to look at other mimics. They were still having their fill of nectar and staying put as a lazy breeze dried sweat from the back of my neck, swaying sunflower stems in the process.
Perusing the other tiny snapshots, I decided to collect and preserve the lively insects once they lived out their short lives. An entomological photo album to save memories that would otherwise be lost.
*
I returned to see the mimics every day over the following months. Summer faded to Autumn as leaves brittled into their earthen browns, yellows, and oranges. Finally, frost began and my little friends were scattered, lifeless, on the ground like imminent scrapbook photos. I promptly collected the insects as they died off. I would have my father’s memories that he’d forgotten. The good and the bad. I wanted them all.
The mimic’s life spans were over, but I wasn’t upset. I had Dad for longer, pinned up on the wall in winged memories, treasured images of life after death through the butterflies.
It was a long goodbye for a man that deserved it.
Copyright © 2023 by R.D. Harris.