It takes me longer to find her this time. But once I do, I never stray far. She’s where I knew she’d be. In her garden. Surrounded by all that she holds precious. Mustn’t let myself get distracted by them; their scent is enough to draw me away.

I approach her cautiously, trying to be casual about it, as if I weren’t there simply to bask in her glow. I miss her. I don’t know how long it’s been since I last dropped in on her. She looks the same. No new grey hairs, as far as I can tell.

I of course look different. Unrecognizable, you might say. But I like to think that if she really tried, she could see me as I used to be. Young. Healthy. Hers.

I touch her arm gently, too gently, and she flinches, only slightly distracted from her work. I retreat, waiting for the right time to try again. She doesn’t like to be interrupted when she nurtures the life under her domain, the plants and flowers she cultivates. I must wait till she is finished.

I can see images—not quite complete memories—of when she started this garden. It was so small then, nothing like it is today. I seem to recall her difficulty in keeping what little there was there alive. She’s come a long way, picking up tricks and tips, all the little secrets of how to make things thrive in her care. . .

I miss her. Did I say that already? I miss holding her in my arms, taking her places, doing things with her. . . Now I just watch her.

And when I try to get close to her, she usually brushes me off, not wanting me around. I try not to take it personally.

The sun is higher in the sky now. Her morning duties should be coming to an end. I will try again and hope she will not reject me.

I touch the back of her neck. She doesn’t move. Her skin is warm from the sun, and I revel in its texture. Perhaps I can kiss it, taste the saltiness of the sweat caused by the heat of the day. I try.

Her hand is swift. She smacks the back of her neck, and I come away in her hand. She sees this, looking down at my crumpled form, and she is instantly saddened.

“Oh,” she says, regretting her rash action against me. “It was a butterfly.”

I had tried to appeal to her this time. To come back in a form she would find pleasing. I don’t always have that opportunity. I don’t know how long till I may have it again.

But still it was nice to be next to her again. To feel the touch of her skin. To see her happy. And not in mourning. It took a while for her to return to her garden. To care about life, or giving life to other things. But finally she moved past losing me. And was able to smile again.

I wish I got to see her smile at me. That was why I came back as a butterfly this time. I must learn from this life how better to approach her next time. I will wait again, as long as I have to, so that it is a butterfly again that returns to her garden. Instead of touching her, I’ll put myself in her line of sight. Let her see my colors, my pattern.

I think it’ll make her smile.

A Finalist in 2020’s J. F. Powers Prize for Short Fiction and the L. Ron Hubbard’s Writers of the Future Contest, Anthony Regolino has had his fiction and poetry included in various anthologies devoted to fantasy, horror, science fiction, crime, and comedy. He worked as an editor in the book publishing field for over a dozen years, has been a ghostwriter and contributing writer, and composed blogs professionally for major companies’ websites.