Would you believe it if I were to tell you something that is out of the ordinary? Or would it be rather simple than to just accept it out of the conscience of wanting to console the grieving individual? Be that as it may, I'm sure those who are tactful enough would fall into the second category, falling in line to either grieve alongside their mates or just to lend a shoulder to cry on. But for those who are more than just sensible, to those who takes sentimental approaches with a pinch of salt and not accepting something ethereal with a facile nod of the head, then I'd welcome you to my story. Again... one that is true, one that happens when my dearly beloved pet dog, Bruno pass on at that very fateful day of March the Fourth, Two Thousand and Fourteen.
I can understand how sad my mom and my dad was. Who wouldn't especially when you have knitted up a tight-fitting relationship with someone and not just something for such an endearingly long time? Being in closer contact with Bruno all these while, their hearts would understandably be broken to shattering diamonds that would find themselves a challenging time to piece back. And I don't think they would be able to piece them back without leaving a prominent scar along the way. Or to speak in a matter-of-factly tune, an interminable amount of scars.
As God is my witness... I would call no evidence in court to lie for anyone's behalf... and here so my story begins.
I was besotted with the murkiness that swamps the riverine region tracking its course along a winding path of dense mangrove forest when I happened to look up from my bed. Something fluttered across the living room - some shadowy substance that seems to play tag with the baking rays of the sun that pierces through the shaded curtains in my rented house. Every time I tried to track the mobile object with my eyes, I seem to be missing it for good. Rays of sun reflects eagerly off the fluttering organism that it took some time for me to register that it was a black coloured butterfly. From a distance I couldn't quite make out what shape it was or how in the world it must have gotten in to my house.
For the past ten months or so staying in the place I am currently residing in, I have never had an encounter with a butterfly; not inside my house nor in the garden compound that surrounds halve of my humble dwelling. The timing was perfectly lined that I should meet its acquaintance a few hours after the terrible news came to my understanding. Bleary eyed from snivelling intermittently, I stood up from sitting on the edge of my bed. I must have been predictably weak from bawling that I felt a momentary flush of giddiness and light-headedness. Black spots as tiny as a period dot formed and twirled in front of my field of vision and made me spun for quite a bit before settling down again on the bed to gather my composure. I rubbed my eyes, dried it with a towel and got up again, this time slowly; each and every time trying not to lose track of the interesting discovery I've made in that afternoon.
I lumbered out from my room and scrambled a stool from my dining table; sat down near enough to look what has just transpired in my living room and failed to register at that particular moment the significant association with the appearance of the butterfly. As I hunched my shoulder forward and lifted my head with a perfunctory glance, it suddenly came to me. I'm so oft reminded of the brilliance of a butterfly that comes to a home of an individual that I would never forget it, not even for a dull moment. Must have been the tearing episode that must have left my brain scarred momentarily to comprehend the ongoings of a butterfly; yes, and as simple as that... trudging along the curtains - up and down nonchalantly.
As the butterfly prodded for a place to limber on before moving on to another sweet spot, my mother's voice, clear as crystal came to me in a soft hush tone that seemed to be the most perfect voice that I would want to hear at this moment of dire circumstance...
'Whenever a person or an animal pass on... they would transform into a butterfly and visit the ones they love the most...'
That reduced me to tears again and I cried my heart out not caring for once in the world that it would jar my neighbours from their afternoon slumber and peer in to see what might have gotten my toe. Thankfully, no one was home next door, not even a few more houses after. The retching episodes came and as I nauseatingly vomited saliva onto the floor, I allowed myself to slide from the stool and onto the unblemished linoleum which I had just recently bleached a few days before. I sat there with my head planted firmly in the groove between my knees and bawled and bawled until there was nothing left but a stuffed red nose and a stink of vomit that rose high up to disperse the lizards stuck at the ceiling.
If you were to ask me how long I sat there glazed with dumbfounded insouciance, I would have told you it must have been for hours... only then as I finally succumbed to the significant thirst that I then allowed myself to grab a glass of water from the dining table. I happened to turn my head into my bedroom while I was at it and the clock face seems to tell me that it has been only 15 minutes. I drank the water gratefully and then as I put it down... a memory so sharp race across my mind again. Something with regards to Bruno. I've read somewhere that even after your pet has passed on for decades, a small momentary lapse of sight, sense, smell or touch and even taste, be it insignificant as it is would trigger the tear gland and push you into a moping episode. But the relevance was obvious. My beloved Bruno loved water and my mom always compared my carefree attitude in always forgetting to drink water to that of Bruno, whom by himself would know when to drink them and how much he would need to drink in order to prevent himself from getting sick.
That would perhaps explain why Bruno, as fit as a fiddle had never gotten a flu bout for the most part of his life.
But I digress with a touch of sincerity... to explain and elaborate on how Bruno means so much to me. Even now his actions in his prime daily routine would trigger me to find a place to sit and cry the episode out of my eyes until I feel comfortable again to recoup. The water had not so much entered my gut that I regurgitated some of them out again as another bout of weeping episode came unbidden. My knees unhinged and I sat down with a thump on another stool, planting squarely with my bottom on the seat, minding not the pain the sent a sharp bolt to my spine.
But I'll spare you the grisly details of my crying bout, the insanity of repetition of which would drive any sane minds to the wall. Suffice to acknowledge the fact that I loss all sense of touch to the immediate world when I return to my home from work and feel the loneliness creep into me. I tried to read but I don't think I got anywhere far. I tried to engage in details of my work, but I doubt that would get me anywhere more than flipping through the papers before thumping them back into my tote bag. I don't know for how long I would be grieving my lost, but funny as it seem, I don't really mind it at all. It is as if grieving for my loss is an acceptable fashion in this circumstance and it would hold me closely to Bruno, never wanting the memory forever etched in my mind to escape.
But why would I denounce all forms of remarks in asking me to get on with life and move on with it? For that simple fact that I never had a friend so loyal and so lovely as that of Bruno...
Thanks for visiting me in Sabah, Bruno... Although worlds of scientific rationality and pragmatism would dismiss that the presence of the butterfly in my living room could have been a coincidental finding of perhaps one that has gotten lost while venturing too far from home, I would never hear any of that.
Your sweet presence and your good sense of locating your master has never ceased to amaze me even after you have move on to the heavenly realms. I rejoice in the knowing that you are as carefree as a butterfly, as sweet and lovely as ever and as wonderfully loved as you are.
I still miss you Bruno... and I dream of you every time I close my eyes and lull myself to sleep. I know Mom and Dad does so too and it is still very much painful and very much real to all of us who loves you so much. Your paw prints has not only touched us; your close immediate family, but whoever that has come into contact with you. In one way or another, I want to believe that you changed their life for the better. Even those who hasn't seen you at all are afflicted with the pain and sorrow that they share of losing you. I'm so proud to call you my brother. Bruno... you'll never be far and I darn well know it!
I love you Bruno!