Thursday, night butterflys

When I was 15 years old I visited Opatija. I remember a rockysharp beautiful coastline.We stayed in a faded Victorian hotel and straight away I pictured myself in a film.

I spent the days on my own , wandering up and down the coastline, toegripping rocks and grazing shins in an effort to find the best reading place. At night I met with my parents and we ate on the terrace of the hotel. There was a waiter, a thin tall boyman to me. Dark eyes and curled hair. He asked me if I would walk with him along the coastal path, after his shift. To my surprise my parents said I could. We walked and we talked. I remember the feel of my skin, the warmth of the days sun still on my limbs, the taste of salt on my fingers. We stopped by some railings and looked over to the sea. It was all out there in front of us. The moon in the sky and on the water at the same time; one crisp and defined, one spread and spilling. He was the first person after me to touch my wetness. I thought I would faint and laugh and melt all at the same time. As we walked back along the path a big heavy-hairy moth crashed into my face – to the side of my mouth, against my cheek and I jumped and screamed in fright.

“Do not be afraid Isabelle” he said, “for it is only a night butterfly”.

Those words made it all right. I realised then that is all a matter of how we describe the world.

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