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Catching Butterflies
It was a beautiful field. Overgrown with tangled, unrecognizable weeds and small, snaky vines, it became a safe haven for me as I grew older and older. When I was out there, there was no rainy day. The sun always beat down onto the dry, cracked path that my grandpa and I created, ceaseless and unending. Time itself seemed to stop and watch the little six year old girl in messy pigtails and her white haired grandfather coming back day after day. The summer days were always the best. On the hottest possible days, we would go outside, carrying huge nets, containers, and licking opsicles. Walking the small distance across my neighborhood to the field gave me the greatest joy. When I got there, the wailing of the sirens from the distance seemed to fade until nothing, disappearing with everything I had ever worried about. There was only the quiet left. However, the more I came, the more I realized that the quiet I heard wasn’t even close to silence. Standing in the long grass and scratching the numerous mosquito bites on my legs, I heard the true song of nature. The buzzing of unseen bugs, the sway of the leaves, and the hum of the birds created the perfect balanced harmony. I would sit there listening, thoughtfully licking the last bit of my popsicle and wiping the cherry stains on my shirt. And then, the real fun would begin. The nets my grandpa and I carried made sense as the last part of the nature harmony fit in. The butterflies. Catching butterflies became more than just a game to us. It was a sport. We would always start off simple, carelessly capturing the foggy, white butterflies. Even with my chubby legs, I got them easily as they landed on the rightest wildflowers or on the ground. We would carefully place them into the basket my grandpa was holding, where it was already filled with dried grass and flowers. After a while, we would occasionally spot a rarer yellow butterfly. Faster and smarter than the white, it danced gracefully out of reach almost every time we tried to get it, but that didn’t mean we stopped trying. Laughing, my grandpa and I would run until we were both sweating under the fiery sun. We would stay out there at that hastily-made, abandoned field for hours, finding it hard to part. It would be late afternoon by the time we finally were ready to go home, the sun just starting to sink from the newly-born horizon. I would listen the natural harmony one last time, and my grandpa and I would slowly, carrying our basket full of mélange butterflies and the occasional dragonfly, home. We would open the basement door and come in to the dim coolness, breathing in a sigh of relief at the air conditioner. Afterwards, we would open the basket of insects, and one by one, they would slowly fly out of their cramped prison. They always flew to the open window , where the light was the brightest. My grandpa and I would count our catch for the day as if it were an extremely vital job, sorting each fluttering butterfly out by color. Sometimes, when we had enough time, we would each pick out a butterfly or dragonfly, and take it to the far end of the basement, and let it go, racing to see which one would get to the window faster. I would be rubbing the powder from the butterfly’s flaky wings over my eyes and onto the furniture for hours afterwards, to the dismay of my mom. But at sunset, when the day was about to be over, my grandpa and I would gently collect the insects back into the basket, and take them outside. One by one, I would release them gently into the air, where they were hesitant at first, but quickly grew in speed. It was an almost perfect image, watching the chain of butterflies steadily fly off towards the setting sun. This happened for the next two years. Some days, we were too busy to go. And over the winter, it was impossible to go at all. But I found myself thinking of that place every day, that messy, beautiful field. People thought I was crazy for wanting to go to such an unruly place. They couldn’t see why I would want to do the same thing every day, catching butterflies only to let them go. But my grandpa always understood. To us, there was something different in every day going out to the field. There would be a new sight, a new sound to hear. No one could understand the joy we felt of capturing a particularly big butterfly, or just being out there an hour longer, but us. Most of all, we listened to the quiet, and the beautiful sounds that came from it. I remember clearer than anything else the day the field disappeared. It was only a couple weeks after winter ended, after the snow finally melted. I ran towards the field with my grandpa close behind me as fast as I could. It had only been a few months since I’ve seen it, but it could’ve been years. I needed to see the field again, to let it fill me with the sounds and peace I never felt anywhere else. But when I got there, I only saw yellow. Not the yellow of the small, dainty wildflowers dotting the field, or the yellow of the quick butterflies. Only the yellow of the construction trucks. For a moment, I just stood there. The loud sounds of construction sounded like nothing to my ears. I could only listen to the silence. |
抓蝴蝶
这是一个美丽的地方。满地长着纠缠一起的无法辨认的杂草和小小的弯弯曲曲的藤蔓，随着我一天一天的长大它变成了我的一个安全的乐园。每次我到那里的时候，天总是不会下雨。太阳总是炙热地烧烤着我和姥爷踩出来的干燥的破裂的小径，而这小径弯弯曲曲无休无止。时间自己好像在驻足观看一个留着杂乱辫子的小女孩和她的白发姥爷爷天天来来回回往返在这片野地上。 夏天的日子总是最好的。在可能是最热的日子里，我们会到外面去，提着大大的网子篮子，边走边舔着冰棍。走过那段穿过邻居到野地的小小距离总是给我带来最大的欢乐。当我到了那里的时候，远处的尖啸警笛声似乎隐约到什么也听不见了，消失到没有什么我可以担心的了。野地只留下来安静。然而，我来的次数越多我越意识到我听到的安静不是那种接近于寂静的声音。站在高高草从之中不断抓挠腿上被无数蚊虫的叮咬痒痛，我听到大自然的真实乐曲。那看不见的虫子的嗡嗡声，挥洒摇摆的叶子声和鸟儿的哼鸣声创造了一首完美平和的自然交响曲。
这时我会坐在那里听，若有所思地舔完我的冰棍的最后一块，擦去滴在我衬衫上的粉色污点。然后，真正的乐趣就开始了。我和我姥爷拎的网子使得完成大自然交响曲最后一节变得有意义了。是，抓蝴蝶。抓蝴蝶对我们不仅仅是一个游戏，它是一种运动。我们总是从简单随意地抓捕雾状白色的蝴蝶开始。即使我有小胖腿跑不动我也很容易抓住那些落在明亮的野花或在地面上的蝴蝶。 我们将捕的蝴蝶小心翼翼地放进姥爷拎着的填有干草和鲜花的篮子里。过了一会儿，我们偶然又发现一只罕见的黄色蝴蝶。它比白色蝴蝶更快更聪明，他优雅地飞舞着，我们试图每一次的抓它但抓不着，但我们依然没有停止努力。我们笑着跑着直到我们在火热的太阳下大汗淋漓。我们一直在那杂草丛生的遗弃野地呆上几个小时，不舍得离开。到傍晚的时候我们终于准备回家，而这时太阳刚刚开始从新生的地平线下沉。我这时会最后一次聆听一下大自然的交响曲，然后我和我的姥爷慢慢地拎着我们充满各种蝴蝶和偶尔还有蜻蜓的篮子，回家。 我们打开地下室的门，进入昏暗冰凉的房间，呼吸一下空调房间的凉气。之后，我们会打开篮子把昆虫一个接一个的放出来，让它们慢慢地飞出自己局促的监牢。他们总是飞到光线最敞亮的窗口。我和我姥爷会数一数我们当天抓捕的蝴蝶，从颜色来分辨各种翅膀还扑棱着的蝴蝶的种类，好像是在做一天最重要的功课。有时，如果我们有足够的时间，我们将各自挑选出一只蝴蝶或蜻蜓，并把它带到地下室的一头，让它们飞，看看哪一个会更快地飞到窗口。随后几个小时，如果妈妈允许，我会将蝴蝶翅膀上呈片状的揉粉抹到我的眼睛和家具上。 但在暮色已晚当天即将结束的时候，我和姥爷会轻轻地将昆虫们采集回来放回篮子里，然后把它们带到屋子外面。一个接一个，我会轻轻地将它们放飞到空中，开始它们还会在哪儿稍作迟疑，然后它们会加速地飞走。这是一幅近乎完美的景象，一串串的蝴蝶链稳健的飞了出去，飞向落日的方向。 抓蝴蝶这事一直进行了两年。有些日子，我们太忙了去不了。而在冬天，我们是不可能去的。但我发现每一天我都在想着那个地方，那个杂乱美丽的旷野之地。人们以为我是不是疯了想要去这样一个不守规矩的地方。他们不明白为什么我每天想要做同样的事情，抓住蝴蝶只是为了让它们飞走。但我的姥爷总能理解。对我们来说，每天去那个野地总有不同的收获。每次去哪里会看见一个新的景象，听到一个新的声音。没有人，除了我们，能够理解我们捕捉一个特别大蝴蝶，或者只是想着哪里多呆一个小时时所感受到的喜悦。除此之外最重要的是，我们在聆听那种安静，那种从那里发出来的美丽的声音。 我比什么事都记得清楚那个野地突然消失的一天。那是个在冬天结束后的几个礼拜的一天，雪已经完全融化了。我带着紧跟在我后面的姥爷飞快的跑向那片野地。几个月前我还看过这里，我确认不可能是几年前。我需要再次看看这个野地，好让它充满我内心不可能从别的地方感受到的声音和平安。但是，当我到了那里，我只看到了黄色。不是那小的纤巧的野花点缀的野地的黄色，也不是快速飞舞的蝴蝶的黄色，而是施工卡车的黄色。那一刻，我只是站在那里。建设工地的隆隆响声在我耳朵里面什么都不是，我只听见寂静的声音。
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