crazy until you got back home."
I nodded, waiting for her to continue.
“The second thing you need to promise me is to stop treating me as if I’m an invalid. My legs may be useless, but my mind and spirit are not. It does me no good for you to treat me like I’m delicate and breakable.” She lifted her chin and looked straight into my eyes. “It’s pathetic and I refuse to be pathetic anymore.”
I stared at her, wanting to defend myself, wanting not to believe that she thought that’s what I’d been doing. Then I saw it through her eyes and realized that I couldn’t defend my behavior. What had started as my wanting to make her transition easier had turned into me thinking I had to protect her from life. I have treated her differently; sometimes even with kid gloves, as if she was fragile . Tears welled in my eyes as I realized my best intentions were hurting her instead.
“You’re right, and I’m sorry. I have been overly protective of you. I just wanted to make things as good for you as possible.”
Her eyes softened. “I know that, Sis. And a huge part of me appreciates that; it was what I needed in the beginning as I processed through everything and got used to this new life.” She waved her hand at her wheelchair. “But no more. I can never get stronger, emotionally or physically, until I can also learn to bear the weight of life on my own.”
I thought about what she said, feeling as if I'd done her a disservice. I wanted to assure her that it was from love and not pity. I wanted to tell her that I understood, but she went on; there was more she needed to say.
“Do you remember when we were little, and we found the chrysalis?” She waited for my nod. “We watched it for days and days it seemed, waiting for the butterfly to emerge.”
I remember that clearly. We’d poked holes in the top of a jar just like Mama had told us, and placed the chrysalis inside, setting the jar on the kitchen table so we could watch it for signs of life.
“I never told you this - never told anyone - but that night, I couldn’t sleep and I’d gone to the kitchen to get some milk. I walked over to the jar and saw it moving and was so excited, I sat down to watch.”
She looked down at her hands, wringing them together. “I waited for almost an hour, watching the cocoon crack open a tiny bit in one spot, but nothing else happened. I was worried there was something wrong, so I decided to help it get free. I… I took it out of the jar and… helped it.” She sighed. “Or so I thought.”
I remembered that morning. I’d walked into the kitchen to find Maria crying. The butterfly was dead, an orange and black puddle at the bottom of the jar. Its body was swollen, and its wings were tiny and shriveled. I cried too. We'd placed it in a little tin Mama had given us. Then we'd taken it outside to bury it under the tree where we’d first found it, complete with our own little funeral service. When Maria whispered, “I’m sorry,” I took it to mean she was sorry it had died, or even that we'd put it into a glass jar instead of leaving it to hatch where we'd found it. We were both sad that day.
“I killed it with kindness, Angela,” Maria confessed. “The butterfly needed the stress, the pressure of the chrysalis to force the fluid from its body and into its wings. Because I decided to help it, that didn’t happen.”
She rolled closer to me and took my hand. “I don’t want to be like that butterfly. Stop protecting me, let me live my life the way it’s supposed to be lived. The good and the bad. The pressure and the pleasure.”
I leaned down, put my arms around her and whispered in her ear. “I will. I promise.”
I didn’t want her to shrivel up, I wanted her to fly. I was glad she'd decided to come out of her chrysalis. It was about time. She didn't need my help, but there was a lot I could do to support her in spreading her wings.
I thought about the secrets I was keeping from her, the things I
I nodded, waiting for her to continue.
“The second thing you need to promise me is to stop treating me as if I’m an invalid. My legs may be useless, but my mind and spirit are not. It does me no good for you to treat me like I’m delicate and breakable.” She lifted her chin and looked straight into my eyes. “It’s pathetic and I refuse to be pathetic anymore.”
I stared at her, wanting to defend myself, wanting not to believe that she thought that’s what I’d been doing. Then I saw it through her eyes and realized that I couldn’t defend my behavior. What had started as my wanting to make her transition easier had turned into me thinking I had to protect her from life. I have treated her differently; sometimes even with kid gloves, as if she was fragile . Tears welled in my eyes as I realized my best intentions were hurting her instead.
“You’re right, and I’m sorry. I have been overly protective of you. I just wanted to make things as good for you as possible.”
Her eyes softened. “I know that, Sis. And a huge part of me appreciates that; it was what I needed in the beginning as I processed through everything and got used to this new life.” She waved her hand at her wheelchair. “But no more. I can never get stronger, emotionally or physically, until I can also learn to bear the weight of life on my own.”
I thought about what she said, feeling as if I'd done her a disservice. I wanted to assure her that it was from love and not pity. I wanted to tell her that I understood, but she went on; there was more she needed to say.
“Do you remember when we were little, and we found the chrysalis?” She waited for my nod. “We watched it for days and days it seemed, waiting for the butterfly to emerge.”
I remember that clearly. We’d poked holes in the top of a jar just like Mama had told us, and placed the chrysalis inside, setting the jar on the kitchen table so we could watch it for signs of life.
“I never told you this - never told anyone - but that night, I couldn’t sleep and I’d gone to the kitchen to get some milk. I walked over to the jar and saw it moving and was so excited, I sat down to watch.”
She looked down at her hands, wringing them together. “I waited for almost an hour, watching the cocoon crack open a tiny bit in one spot, but nothing else happened. I was worried there was something wrong, so I decided to help it get free. I… I took it out of the jar and… helped it.” She sighed. “Or so I thought.”
I remembered that morning. I’d walked into the kitchen to find Maria crying. The butterfly was dead, an orange and black puddle at the bottom of the jar. Its body was swollen, and its wings were tiny and shriveled. I cried too. We'd placed it in a little tin Mama had given us. Then we'd taken it outside to bury it under the tree where we’d first found it, complete with our own little funeral service. When Maria whispered, “I’m sorry,” I took it to mean she was sorry it had died, or even that we'd put it into a glass jar instead of leaving it to hatch where we'd found it. We were both sad that day.
“I killed it with kindness, Angela,” Maria confessed. “The butterfly needed the stress, the pressure of the chrysalis to force the fluid from its body and into its wings. Because I decided to help it, that didn’t happen.”
She rolled closer to me and took my hand. “I don’t want to be like that butterfly. Stop protecting me, let me live my life the way it’s supposed to be lived. The good and the bad. The pressure and the pleasure.”
I leaned down, put my arms around her and whispered in her ear. “I will. I promise.”
I didn’t want her to shrivel up, I wanted her to fly. I was glad she'd decided to come out of her chrysalis. It was about time. She didn't need my help, but there was a lot I could do to support her in spreading her wings.
I thought about the secrets I was keeping from her, the things I
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