Butterfly Sunday
Page 28
She slept. She woke. Blue got up in the night to close the window. He kissed her, and soon he was breathing in deep sleep again. The storm had passed. The room was silver. This, she thought, drawing the moment into her breast, probing it with her eyes, this sensing moment of bliss is mine. Then her eyes caressed the sleeping baby. She touched Blue’s shoulder. She let her cheek graze his upper arm.
It was earthbound enchantment. She peered through the thin veil of curtains over the window into the moonlit woods. Closer in the yard there was a catbird in the sweet gum tree. Then something flashed and disappeared. She waited. It was gone. Then something else fluttered. She slipped quietly out of bed so as not to disrupt their perfect breathing. She slipped into her robe and went out onto the front porch.
It was cool now. She watched in the stillness. There, across the road out of the feathered mist, rising here and there from the blackness between the silver tombstones, as lovely and ephemeral as all living things, a hundred or else a thousand flickering white butterflies rose and drifted like holy snow among the trees.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DAVID HILL divides his time between Los Angeles, where he writes for the stage and screen, and Mississippi. His first novel, Sacred Dust, won the Commonwealth Club of California First Work of Fiction Award.
Table of Contents
Other Books by This Author
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
About the Author