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Friday, June 03, 2005

The Butterfly


Dearest all,
I came across this very interesting story when I was browsing through at Reader's Digest Asia; and I was very moved by it and so I decided to share it with all. And since this is a true story, should by any chance the writer, Mr Michael Tan, happens to one day pass through this page of mine and so happens to read this entry, hear this - our every prayers, especially mine - to your beloved sister Mr Tan. May she rest in peace and if I'm sure if she's still around, she would have been so glad to know how lucky she is to have a brother like you...

The Butterfly
Four decades later, I still remember everything about the last day I saw my sister | by Michael Tan - rdasia.com

"Mum, I'm back," I called out as I stepped into our flat after school. Usually Mum would reply, urging me to take my bath, eat and then do my school work. But this day – March 14, 1961 – there was only silence.

I walked into the bedroom the entire family shared. Mum was sitting at her dressing table, tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked up and said, "Your sister died this morning." I just stood there, not knowing what to say. I was ten years old and the concept of death had no real meaning to me.

I was trying to make sense of the situation when I found Elizabeth's school bag, sitting on a small table in the corner of the bedroom. The rectangular brown hard–case bag looked as if it was waiting to be claimed by its owner. I knelt down, moving my hands slowly across the top of the bag, trying to sense my sister's presence. I opened it.

Everything was neatly arranged – exercise books on one side, textbooks on the other and her pencil case in between. There was also the black plastic headband that she had worn to school that morning.

I took out some of her exercise books. As I turned the pages, I could see a few "Good" and "Very Good" remarks on her English exercises. However, it was clear that Mathematics was her weakest subject. There was also an English textbook entitled First Aid. The top right corner had a dark blue stain – I had accidentally spilled her bottle of ink refill on her books.

I carefully returned the books to their original positions and wondered if Sis would be upset that I had gone through her possessions.

That evening I stood on the balcony, watching every bus that pulled up at the stop opposite our building. I was hoping to see her appear from a bus, any bus, but to no avail.

"Is she coming back?" I kept asking my mother. "Why can't she come back? Why did she have to die?" Mum could offer neither comfort nor meaningful answers to my ceaseless queries.

At about nine o'clock that evening, a black butterfly flew into the kitchen. It fluttered around the hall and landed high on a wall. "Don't chase it away," Mum said.



When I turned in for the night, the butterfly was perched in the same place, but by next morning it was gone. Only then did I remember what had happened two days previously.

That evening, as usual, I had watched out for bus No. 2, which brought Sis home from school. Several buses came and went, but there was no sign of her. I began to worry. Finally, I saw her step off a bus just as the streetlights were flickering on.

I ran to the door because Sis sometimes gave me sweets when she got home. Not that evening – she was in a hurry. She explained that she had forgotten to complete an art project that was due the next day.

Right after her bath and dinner, Sis sat down at our round dining table. A single yellow bulb, not very bright, cast a shadow of her on the floor as she started to work on her painting. I went to the table to see what she was doing. "Don't spill my paint," she cautioned.

Sis divided a rectangular piece of drawing paper into twelve equal boxes, four across and three down. In each box, she painted the same butterfly in a bold black outline. Each butterfly had curly antennae and triangular wings. The wings had slanting lines and dots. She allowed me to help colour in the background of each box. I filled alternate boxes with pink and yellow. It was late by the time we finished.

Now, the day after Sis's death, I remembered that the butterfly that had flown into our flat looked a lot like the ones in her painting.

Every morning Sis left very early to catch her bus to school. Normally I was still asleep, but on the day she died, for some reason, I woke up at 5.30. I walked out of my room to find her rushing around, getting ready for school. That morning she didn't have time to finish her breakfast.

The stairwell in our building was rather dark, and I held the door open so that the light from our flat could help her see her way down. It was about six o'clock when she left.

"Bye, Brother," she called, as she turned to go.

I had no idea that this would be the last thing she would ever say to me. I still remember that very last glimpse of her going down the stairs, her back towards me. She was wearing her blue school uniform. One hand held her school bag and the other bounced in the air as she sped down the stairs.

She was only 14 years old.

Years later I learned the Sis was actually my adopted sister. It didn't matter –I felt the bond between us had remained strong despite the passing of the years. Even now, I wish I could have stopped the clock on the night before she died.

For decades I didn't know the cause of her death – I was only told that she was found lying in the school lavatory and couldn't be revived. However, just recently I obtained a copy of her death certificate, which said that she had suffered a cerebral haemorrhage.


"I believe the butterfly that flew into our flat was actually Sis returning to pay us a final visit before moving on to the next life. One day I too will make this journey, and I will finally see her again."






Nurlea Laurielle Lai Lee Abdullah
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Posted at 7:30:15 am by Nurlea Laurielle Lai Lee Abdullah

shay
June 3, 2005   02:20 PM PDT
 
Lea...i read the story in reader digest before..sedey kan..nampak sgt dia sayang sgt kat sister dia...
*sob sob*
amris manja
June 3, 2005   03:21 PM PDT
 
i read that too...



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