The Butterfly’s Daughter by Mary Alice, Monroe

couldn’t guess, but at some point she felt Sully’s familiar warm breath on her cheek followed by a soft kiss.
    â€œSleep now,” Sully said in a low voice by her ear.
    Luz knew that someday she’d have to find the words to tell Sully how much she appreciated his knowing just what she needed, when she needed it. But speaking was beyond her now. Luz heard the door click shut and slipped into oblivion.
    Luz waited for the dream of the butterflies. She longed to hear her mother’s voice, to feel some connection to her mother and grandmother. But the dream didn’t return. Despair bloomed larger in her chest as she began to fully grasp the profound depth of her isolation. Luz pushed back her blankets and walked directly to her grandmother’s bedroom. Clutching the doorframe, she peered inside. The room was exactly as it always had been while Abuela was alive. Everything was tidy and in its place. Luz wasn’t afraid. She’d welcome her grandmother’s ghost, even prayed she’d come. With an impulsive rush Luz ran into the room, pulled back the coverlet, and climbed under the wool blanket. The sheets were crisp and ironed, cold as death, and she shivered, desperate to feel some spark of warmth, some connection to her grandmother.
    Maybe it was Abuela’s scent still lingering on the sheets, but the fragile thread that held Luz together during the past week suddenly snapped. Clutching her pillow, Luz felt a rush of emotion.
    â€œAbuela!” she called out into the darkness. “Are you there? Do you hear me? Why did you leave before I got to say good-bye?”
    She was crying so hard she had doubled up, and her throat burned like she’d been screaming at the top of her lungs. She wiped the tears from her face with the sheet and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her emotions, so mercurial in grief, quickly turned to self-loathing.
    â€œI didn’t get to tell you I’m sorry. I’m so very, very sorry. You gave me everything I needed and you never asked me for anything. Not once in all those years. And what did I do when you asked me to do one thing? To go on this trip with you? I said no. I always say no!”
    She squeezed her pillow tighter and brought her knees closer to her chest. She repeated “I’m sorry” in a litany, over and over, counting apologies as a child would count sheep. In time her grip loosened from the pillow, and she felt her muscles slowly relax and her ragged breathing grow more even. Before falling into a fitful sleep, Luz murmured a final prayer.
    â€œAbuela, won’t you send me a sign that you hear me? Some signal that you’re still with me. I don’t need to hear your voice or see a ghost or anything like that. I’m not asking for much. It’s just . . . I don’t know what to do. I feel so alone. Please, Abuela, just some small sign that you’re still with me and I’m not alone.”
    Luz awoke to the sound of tapping against her window. She licked her dry lips and rubbed her eyes, grainy from tears, then pulled herself up on one elbow and looked around the room. She caught the scent of vanilla and maize and thought Abuela’s death had been a dream. Then, waking fully, she recognized Abuela’s dark wood bed, the crucifix on the wall, her bureau and mirror adorned with photographs. Abuela was gone. Luz squeezed her eyes against the fresh wave of grief.
    She heard the tapping noise again. Lifting her head, she followed the sound to the windows that opened up to the back porch—Abuela’s workroom. She felt a chill travel down her spine when she spied the unmistakable shadow of tiny wings frantically beating against the glass.
    A butterfly!
    Abuela had told her many times that a monarch butterfly was the soul of the recently departed. She felt her heart quicken—this couldn’t be a coincidence. She threw back the blanket to run to her grandmother’s closet. Opening it, she