There was a bedtime story my mom used to tell me.
After the war and a long night of heavy rain, grass and flowers blossomed from the barren land. The scent of ashes lingered, but the earth slowly dried under the sun.
A swirl of butterflies emerged from the ground, rising like smoke. Their fragile wings burst with color—blue, red, yellow—more stunning than a rainbow. I imagined this was what a kaleidoscope looked like from the inside.
“Why did the butterflies appear?” I’d ask my mom.
“It’s a symbol,” she’d say, smiling as she pointed to a picture in the children’s book. “It’s a symbol of rebirth. Everything is possible, even after death.”
“Is it like a second chance?” I whispered.
“Sort of,” she chuckled.
But in life, we don’t always get a second chance. An overcooked meal. A missed flight. A friendship that went sour.
Sometimes, if you don’t race against time, it leaves you behind, aching with an open wound.
I missed the time. I missed a lot of opportunities to spend with my mom because I was busy chasing my dreams. I wondered if I’d ever have a second chance to make up for the lost time. But the truth was—I lost the race, and she died in her hospital bed.
Before I knew it, eight years had gone by. I took the last train home right before the holidays. Scrolling through the calendar on my phone, I realized I could make it for her death anniversary.
I thought about the place where they kept her ashes. It was surrounded by stone walls and intersected by rows of narrow hallways, each leading to a tall glass window. Light would break through and bathe the hollow space.
How long had it been?
“It’s been a while since I last visited you. Sorry... it always takes so long to get back here. I miss you.”
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
I miss you.
Buzz.
I was still thinking about my mom as I sat on the train when my phone screen lit up. A message from my friend. She complained about her job. “Always working overtime,” she wrote. “Then last night, when I left the office around 10, I saw two kittens chasing each other’s tails in a circle. When they finally stopped, they both looked at me before disappearing behind a bush.”
“I think it must be a sign.”
“A sign that I’m working too hard. Chasing tails and losing sight of the bigger things in life.”
I lowered my phone.
Was it really a sign? A symbol?
Or was it a coincidence?
I guess we interpret things the way we want them to be. We see silhouettes in a picture the way we want to see them.
But it’s not wrong to find meaning in these encounters. If we stop seeking meaning in life... then what’s left to seek?
I went to the columbarium after dropping off my luggage at home. The place was quiet on a Thursday afternoon. I bought a bouquet of jasmine and left it by her stand. In the photo, she was smiling. I touched the glass, reminding myself not to forget her face.
I closed my eyes, and her face became clear... like a camera finding focus. Her smile. Her dark eyes. Her warm, calloused hands. I remembered how she’d rest her chin on my shoulder when she hugged me. It felt like yesterday. I could even smell the shampoo in her wavy hair.
Then I slowly put away the memories, storing them somewhere safe, far from the struggles and broken dreams of my life.
“There are so many things I thought I’d have figured out by now,” I told her.
“But I guess I’m not necessarily wiser than I was as a child. I think I’m lost...”
Can you come find me? In my dreams?
As I left the building, I noticed the ground was wet.
“Was it raining earlier?” I wondered. Turning the corner, I suddenly saw a burst of butterflies rise from behind the garden. I instinctively stepped back. They rose like a stream of colorful flames—blue, red, yellow. Up into the sky, they went, like a trail of fluttering dust.
I gasped and turned away as tears fell down my cheeks.
“Why did the butterflies appear?” I whispered to myself.
“It’s a symbol.” I heard her voice. I saw her dimple on the left side and the fine lines around her eyes.
I nodded.
I watched the butterflies disappear into the distance, beyond a willow tree. They flew with freedom, beyond the reach of the branches, far and wide. Not knowing where they were going, they beat their wings regardless, with a bit of courage and conviction... and the faith that a second chance is possible.