Her Butterfly Effect

I remember the day my grandmother gave me the gift. Abuelita, as she preferred to be called, had invited me to her home, where she had set out her fine porcelain cups and saucers and poured hot tea from an old English tea pot painted with delicate flowers. As we sipped our tea, my grandmother began recalling stories about her life on a dairy farm and vineyard in rural Mexico during the 1970s. She referred to her adventures as her “butterfly effect” because of the changes she witnessed on the farm when she lived there as a young bride. She paused, adjusting her lime green shawl, and wiping her eyes with her embroidered handkerchief which she tucked under her watch strap, privately reliving those special moments in her mind, and then she invited me to her attic where she kept her memories and secrets.
From an embroidered velvet bag, she removed a brass key, its ornate handle finely etched. Without saying a word, she slid the key into the lock of an old cedar trunk. With reverent care, she raised up the wooden lid, releasing into the air a sweet fragrance of lavender. A soft light from the dormer window fell gently across her wedding dress. Carefully she removed the vintage gown, exposing uncounted treasures. She glanced approvingly over the contents of her trunk, a small leather-bound guidebook, a wooden rooster and hen, and a model of an ox cart made from wooden puzzle pieces, and then her eyes came to rest upon an emerald green box. As if it were a valuable artefact, she retrieved the coffer and carefully placed it in my hands. “I want you to have this,” she said shyly. “It is my gift to you and to your children.” Then, just as devotedly, she put back her cherished wedding gown along with the memories, and lowered the cedar lid, locking it again and placing the key back into its velvet shroud.
I sat in the light of the dormer window hesitating to open the box. I knew that whatever was inside was cherished by my grandmother, and yet I wondered why she had secretly locked it away for so many years. How could such a simple box cause such reluctance?
The box was made from polished tin. Around its four sides were painted colorful wildflowers, and on the lid reigned an embossed portrait of a beautiful monarch butterfly. Cautiously I removed the lid and peered inside.
There, wrapped in an orange satin ribbon, was a manuscript, penned in an elaborate hand. Carefully, I slid the ribbon off the fine parchment. The cover of the manuscript was washed in flaming orange with curving lines of black ink that resembled a pathway on a treasure map. Elaborately drawn letters in the title were intertwined like grapevines. Discretely woven into the lower corner was the author’s name, my grandmother! In silent admiration, I smiled at Abuelita, her eyes seeking my approval as she joined me in the window seat to share her story. Together, we began to read “When the Evergreens Blossomed Orange.”

As trees in the northern climate don their autumn red coats and animals prepare for their seasonal hibernation, monarch butterflies gather up into giant clouds of orange to migrate to their winter sanctuary, hidden in the mountains of southern Mexico. Their journey across this vast continent is long and treacherous and requires leadership and pinpoint precision in navigation. This is a story about Elizabeth, a monarch butterfly, who courageously navigated her flock on its annual migration south, following the map etched onto her auburn wings. Her responsibility was to scout ahead, determining the safest flight patterns and locating the assigned areas where the flock of butterflies could feed on the nectar of flowering plants and briefly rest during their exhausting journey.