Swallowtail
By Zoe Hiemstra
“Do you want to see her?”
I did. I had an inexplicable desire to see her body. I wanted to grip her skin and feel the cold flesh between my fingers and look into her empty eyes and try to understand.
I hadn’t lost anyone yet. I figured hugging my grandmother’s body was the only way to embrace the fact that she was gone.
I walked up to her body in the yellow twin bed, the very same bed I stayed in at her house, and laid my chest across her skin and bones. I whispered to her, although I’m sure that it came out in ragged gasps. I pressed my cheek into hers and tried to open her eyes, but they looked dark and alien and so wrong.
I know I talked to her, but I don’t remember the words anymore. I remember I lined up our bodies, hers stiff where mine was soft, hers cold where mine was warm, and tried to breathe in her scent, but it had gone with the rest of her.
***
On the first warm day in March, a tiny yellow egg begins to crack. The heat is the encouragement the small caterpillar needs to poke its head from the warm shell, brown and shriveled, ready to begin its journey to becoming a butterfly.
***
Sally was my grandmother. I called her Grammie. Grammie, Poppop, and Aunt Sandy all lived in my neighborhood, all of us almost exactly a two-minute walk from each other. We usually gathered at Grammie’s house; ours was rarely clean, the dog shed everywhere and followed Mom around like a fat white shadow, and nobody made time to properly cook a meal.
Grammie’s house on Foxwood Road had a beige, warmly lit living room with a beautiful, bristly blue-and-yellow swirled rug. The walls were decorated with intricate floral paintings, red lilies and blue peonies and sunset tulips. The screen-in room overlooked a garden adorned with bird feeders, and in summer, yellow and red honeysuckles would climb over the peeling paint of the white fences. The dining room, illuminated by windowpanes looking out to the porch, held the giant mahogany table littered with little scratches and dents from generations of our family.
Poppop always sat at the far left of the table, and Grammie, the far right, an even match.
When Aunt Sandy came, she’d sit directly between Grammie and me.
At least once a week, my parents, sister and I would show up at the house ravenous, eating Grammie’s twice-baked potatoes with extra cheese, apple and walnut salad, and slices of the dark chicken meat on a white floral plate. I remember the days I squirmed in my seat, craving liberty from the confinement of having to sit still, too young to appreciate the beauty of listening to the voices of my family.
I would grow to miss her voice, aching at the loss of it, searching for scraps in old voicemails or worn notes she’d written.
***
Sandy and Sally were sisters. Where Sally was the Sun, Sandy is the moon. Where Sally was the confident social butterfly, Sandy is the silent dependable companion. Sally was light filtering through the branches, and Sandy is the tree you find shade to rest in. Together, they are a constant balance, an incomparable bond that even death could not sever.
***
The Eastern Yellow Swallowtail, also known as the Papilio Glaucus, is a beautiful tiger-striped species of butterfly. Often confused with the Orange Monarch, or Danaus
Plexippus, the swallowtail has black tiger-stripes outlining each pane of wing, darker coloration on the bottom two tail segments. However, the monarch is never found in yellow, only orange.
The Papilio Glaucus confidently claims its own canary hues, although sometimes the
cold-blooded females are found in pure black, with blue wing tips blending into the twilight.
***
I didn’t understand the idea of loss until I clutched her body in my arms. Grief had always been, to me, dark rooms with shades drawn and beautiful criers and rainy days; wintertime and barren land; the scene in a sad movie when a protagonist cries over their lost lover and everything has a blue tint. I had just cried over lost love, yes, but when I did it I spat everywhere and gasped for breath and shook terribly. I certainly didn’t wipe my beautiful eyes and raise a fist to the sky at the world’s injustice, though that would come later.
I thought grief was equivalent to sadness, pretty and fleeting and proof that you cared enough about someone to miss them.
I didn’t know, until after, that this loss would be with me every day. I didn’t know it would make my lungs constrict and throat close in the middle of my eighth grade gym class, or drive shooting pains through my chest whenever I passed her house, or, perhaps the worst; that I’d wake up every morning for months after and feel peace, until the memory sank in and I knew she was gone.
I was so young.
I didn’t know I’d push my friends away, and have good days and days I didn’t want to talk to anyone at all. “Grief comes in waves,” they told me. You don’t know what that means until one minute, you’re floating by, land within reach, and the next, you’re underwater, gasping for breath, or maybe letting yourself sink.
I loved my grandmother very deeply; she was my friend, but she was also, very much, my grandmother. I love Aunt Sandy, she is my great aunt, but she is also, very much, my friend.
***
The Swallowtail finds itself to be lonely during the Chrysalis days, no matter how necessary they are for growth. The larvae searches for its next meal, constantly ravenous, until a few weeks pass, and it feels an undeniable exhaustion setting in. The caterpillar succumbs to the fatigue, curling itself into a tiny cocoon to rest, recover, and prepare for the future.
***
Whenever I was sick from school, I went to Grammie’s. I’d have a miraculous recovery as soon as I laid under the white knit blankets, surrounded by the warm glow of the living room. I’d curl up on the red and tan furniture and reach out my arms, embracing the feel of the porcelain mugs filled with hot Nesquik; the sliced, skinless apples, the thick grilled cheese with no crusts. She doted on me in a way only a grandmother can, and I milked it willingly.
Sometimes, I’d be lucky enough to have Grammie and Sandy take care of me together.
One of the times, I had a particularly nasty stomach bug. I attempted to eat an apple and lie down, but it erupted out of me in acidic chunks directly onto my fuzzy fuchsia body pillow. Pretty much the worst possible place you could throw up, and I landed it nicely. I remember laying back down, ready to succumb to my stomach bug and lay next to the vomit, but gentle hands saved me. Grammie, cup of water and wet towel, took care of my face and mouth, and Sandy pried the purple pillow from my hands and washed it out. I, recognizing I couldn’t possibly be any safer, promptly fell asleep.
***
When the Papilio Glaucus is attacked by a predator, usually a bird ready for a feast, it defends itself with little tube-like orange structures called osmeteria. The tentacles wave around rapidly, emitting a foul-smelling warning chemical, protecting the butterfly through an angry, putrid display.
***
A few years later, when Grammie had been slowly declining, I got sick again, and neither of my parents could take off work. I was excited- it’d been a long time since I’d gotten to spend the full day with Grammie’s undivided attention. I grabbed my worn paperback version of Lightning Thief and put on my zebra-pajama pants, ready for the short trek to her house, naive to the danger I now posed to her.
I sat next to the door, waiting for my mom to take me on the thirty second drive up the street, when she announced I couldn’t stay at Grammie’s today. I was distraught. What was the point of being sick if I wouldn’t have Grammie’s soft hands and sweet words to cure me? I yelled at my mom, and although I don’t know what the words were, I know they had no basis other than frustration with this change. I stormed upstairs, slammed my door behind me, and laid out flat on the scratchy carpet. My mom followed me in after a few minutes, which is unlike her.
“Zoodlebug. I know you’re upset.”
My mom’s tone was soft, something that isn’t very common and should be taken very seriously.
“If she gets sick, it’ll be really, really dangerous for her now. Chemo has worn down on her immune system and she’s a lot weaker than she used to be.”
Once again, I grappled with the idea of mortality, this new, fickle thing.
***
When the Papilio Glaucus emerges from its cocoon, its wings are a shriveled, wet mess, weak and useless. The swallowtail requires a unique and powerful catalyst: heat. While some butterflies cannot fly in temperatures above 90 degrees Fahrenheit, the swallowtail thrives in the blistering sunlight, spreading its wings and embracing the intensity of the summer sun.
***
When Sandy was diagnosed, I felt the rage come back from somewhere deep and ugly, a furnace I’d kept dormant, waiting. I’ve always been one of the angriest people I know. I keep it tucked behind a facade, only occasionally visible when something slips past the walls and out of my mouth before I have time to block it. I played soccer a few days after finding out Sandy’s diagnosis and got slammed onto the ground by a man, ankle sliced open and purple. I had scrapes on my knees and bruises on my elbows from where they’d dug into ribs. We were losing rapidly, so I played dirtier, uglier, meaner.
I didn’t get to see Sandy until about two weeks after I found out about her diagnosis.
Triple positive breast cancer, the most aggressive kind, although also one of the most treatable. I was too blinded by the brutality of the situation, Sandy being forced to fight the disease that killed her sister, to embrace the possible treatability. After I learned, I wanted to see Aunt Sandy immediately, to grieve with her, prepare with her, throw my fist towards the sky with her.
She told me she had a cold, but I thought she was avoiding me. Most likely it was both. When I finally got to see her, she battled me every time I attempted to bring up her health.
“This is your dinner. I want to focus on you.”
“I don’t want to talk about such dreary things when I’m having such a good time.” “It is what it is. So, tell me about your plans for the week.”
Luckily, I had expected and prepared for this avoidant dance. Aunt Sandy doesn’t like when things are about herself, and even more, she doesn’t like hurting other people. I think her diagnosis made her more anxious for the pain it would put us through than herself.
***
The Eastern Yellow Swallowtail doesn’t just embrace heat: it seeks it out desperately. The creatures are cold-blooded, and to beat the post-cocoon lethargy and bodily detachment, the butterfly must feel the high temperatures of a southern summer. Oftentimes, when the Swallowtail has been too cold for too long, it will lay out in the sun in a behavior called “basking,” hoping to regain some blood flow and feeling.
***
Rage is easier than grief. Rage is blinding and red and distracting. Grief is dark and oily and absorbent, something to sink into. But I don’t only lean towards rage because it’s easier to handle. I lean towards rage because I am angry. I am viscerally, uncontrollably furious that I have watched one of my best friends lose control of her body and fade into a cold imitation.
I am angry for Aunt Sandy, who changed her sister’s clothes and swept clumps of hair off the floor and held her while she vomited bile, who now must put herself through the same.
***
“Aunt Sandy. This is important to me, and I would like to talk about it, or else I’ll worry, and you know that.”
Played to her empathy; a strength and weakness. “I do know that about you. Okay, fine.”
She told me how she got the diagnosis before I left for vacation, and how she refused to let my mom tell me until after. She told me that the treatment couldn’t start until after they
opened her up and figured out how far the cancer had spread. She touched her hair, subconsciously I think, and I knew she didn’t want to lose it. She didn’t have to tell me how her stomach dropped at the thought of chemo, how she dreaded the treatment, because we’d both already seen it wear away at Grammie. She didn’t have to tell me how she feared depending on us, because I knew, deep down, Sandy’s greatest fear was becoming a burden.
I think her diagnosis brought up memories for her, for me, for the whole family, we had left buried. I like to avoid thoughts of mortality, but sometimes they’re thrust in my face unwittingly. I also think everyone I’ve ever truly loved with cancer has fought and died.
More than anything, I don’t want to see Sandy suffer. I want her to experience only good for the rest of her life. She has experienced enough loss, and she has provided endless love.
***
The Eastern Yellow Swallowtail, like most butterflies, seeks nectar as its source of nutrients. Interestingly, the creature also looks for sweet plants to lay its eggs on, like wild black cherry, ash, tulip trees, magnolias, and willows. In every part of its life cycle, the swallowtail is somehow touched by a natural, sticky sugar.
***
I find my grief is like honey. In doses, it enhances the flavor of its surroundings; an indicator of how beautiful the rest of life is; a reminder to cherish every last drop. But too much and I am stuck, I am choking, I am drowning in the sweetness of my own sorrow.
***
Aunt Sandy and I go on dinner dates to our classic spots; the Loop for oreo shakes and goat cheese salad, Twisted Noodles for pad thai and curry, Carburritos for chicken burritos and Boyland bottled root beer; for special occasions Pita Grill or Pierro’s Italian or something new
and exciting. When I was in high school, I’d go to her place or she’d come to mine, advantages of being neighbors, and we’d watch Criminal Minds or Bones or a random movie. She’d turn her head, squint her eyes, and stick out her tongue at every gory scene, uninterested in the visceral violence the shows had to offer.
Once, our church, University Presbyterian, put on a symphony. Grammie’s ashes are buried there, with her husband’s, and every time I’m there (Christmas and Easter, usually), I make it a point to go visit them. I tell them about my life, about romance, friendship, and school, and I tell them how Aunt Sandy is doing. During this symphony, Sandy and I sat in the back and absorbed each crescendo, squeezing each other’s arms excitedly at a particularly beautiful climax or enchanting harmony. Grammie listened in with us from the soil, her sister and her granddaughter, huddled together in the back pew.
***
“Puddling” is a butterfly phenomenon where Easter Yellow Swallowtails seek out dense mud and liquid in a large group. They search for small, warm bodies of water to drink, content with the protection of moving together instead of alone.
***
About a year before Grammie passed away, she and Sandy bought me a sterling silver necklace in the shape of a butterfly. We already had a family necklace, my aunts, my mom, my sister and I all owners of a silver dove, Grammie’s being the only gold one. This necklace was my own special mark of our relationship. Grammie, Sandy and I, and our love for the beautiful yellow butterflies that rested in the flowers decorating our neighborhood.
***
I wear the same silver butterfly necklace that Grammie and Sandy gave me five years ago so that I always have them both with me. I still consider Aunt Sandy one of my closest friends, and keep her updated on everything in my life, from fun dates I’ve been on to my monthly existential crisis to little quarrels with my roommates. I honk every time I pass Grammie’s house in our neighborhood with its green yard with yellow daffodils peeking through the soil, the faded paint, the white fences with ivy beginning to creep over the sides.
Every time I see a swallowtail fluttering around a house, or getting just a little too close to my line of sight, I think it’s Grammie saying hello. I’m not religious, but I believe in some sort of afterlife only because I know she isn’t fully gone.
***
Recently, at one of our dinners, Aunt Sandy and I had an hour-long discussion about bear’s hibernation, and cicada’s 17-year slumber. I wonder what it’s like to be in a cocoon. Do you dream, if you’re between worlds? When the Swallowtail is tightly wrapped in its shell, does it become thoughtless, simply a state of matter and energy like the air, or a tree?
Or does it dream of big, beautiful wings and an open sky, no longer chained to its earthly body?
***
I dream about Grammie sometimes: playing tennis, teaching me cards, braiding my hair. Sometimes, I can’t see her, but I can feel her, in a vision of a tulip field set aglow in golden light.
Most of all I dream about her standing between this world and the next; body whole again, fingertips reaching towards the salty surf. I call out to her, and she looks back at me and smiles, tears filling the corners of her eyes. I stop calling, because I know she can’t come back, and she fades away into the wind.
Zoe Hiemstra (she/her) is a graduating senior with a passion for nature, grief and love in her writing. She intends to pursue her MFA in creative nonfiction at UNCW starting in Fall 2025.