Agustina

Agustina lived in a grand, quiet house perched on the slopes of Queen Anne’s neighbourhood in Seattle, a city perpetually cloaked in a soft, grey mist. The house, once vibrant with the laughter and chaos of five children, now echoed with a profound silence. Peter was in Mexico City, a world away; George had built a life in Brazil; Emma pursued her passions in Germany; Matthew had found his calling in China; and Emily, her youngest, resided in the UK. Her husband, Arthur, had passed away peacefully a few years after retirement, leaving Agustina utterly alone.

Her grandchildren, sweet as they were, were distant constellations, visiting only during the bright, fleeting holidays. For the rest of the year, Agustina’s days unfurled with a gentle, melancholic rhythm. Her sanctuary was her garden, a wild, beautiful expanse that spilled down the hillside, carefully tended despite the pervasive loneliness. It was there, amidst the fading autumn blooms, that she found her purpose renewed.

It was late fall, the air sharp with the promise of winter. The maple leaves, once fiery, now lay in brittle piles. Agustina, bundled in a wool cardigan, was deadheading the last of her hydrangeas when her eye caught a flicker of orange against a wilting zinnia. It was a monarch butterfly, its wings tattered, its movements slow and erratic. She knew instantly it was sick. Winter was already whispering through the cedars, and this fragile creature, meant to be thousands of miles away in Mexico, didn’t have the strength to migrate.

A pang of empathy, deep and familiar, struck Agustina. She knew what it felt like to be left behind, to face a harsh season alone. Gently, with a tenderness born of an aching heart, she cupped her hands around the ailing insect and carried it to her small, sun-drenched hothouse.

The hothouse was a haven of warmth and green, smelling of damp earth and growing things. She found a lush potted hibiscus and carefully perched the monarch on a vibrant red bloom. “There, little one,” she murmured, her voice a soft whisper in the quiet space, “you’re safe now.”

Every day, Agustina visited her charge. She talked to the butterfly, telling it about the old days, about Arthur, about her dispersed children, about the quiet ache in her bones. She’d gently move the little insect from flower to flower, ensuring it had fresh nectar. She even dabbed tiny drops of sugar water onto the petals for it, watching with a hopeful heart as its proboscis uncurled.

Days turned into a week, then two. Slowly, miraculously, the monarch grew stronger. Its wings regained some of their lustre, its movements became more purposeful. It would flutter from one bloom to another, a vibrant splash of orange in the humid air. But the biting winds outside, the leaden sky, confirmed what Agustina already knew: it was too late. The monarch’s extraordinary journey to its winter home in Mexico was impossible now.

So, the butterfly stayed. It became her constant companion through the long, grey Seattle winter. Its silent presence filled a small, significant part of the emptiness in Agustina’s days. She would read aloud to it, tell it stories, and simply sit, watching it drink from the fuchsia or bask in the weak winter sun filtering through the glass panes.

Then, imperceptibly at first, spring began to stir. The persistent drizzle gave way to patches of sunshine, the bleak branches outside swelled with buds, and the first snowdrops pushed through the thawing earth. One morning, as Agustina entered the hothouse, she saw the monarch fluttering excitedly against the glass. It was strong, healthy, and the call of the open sky was undeniable.”

With a bittersweet pang, Agustina opened the hothouse door. The monarch hesitated for a moment, as if bidding farewell, then soared into the fresh spring air, a flash of pure joy against the burgeoning green. Agustina watched until it disappeared, a familiar emptiness settling in her chest.

But the story didn’t end there.

Just a few weeks later, as the garden burst into full, technicolour glory, Agustina was pruning her roses when she saw it. Not just one monarch, but several, dancing in the midday sun. And then, one of them, unmistakably her monarch – she knew its slight wing tear from its long stay – fluttered directly towards her. It circled her head before landing gently on the shoulder of her cardigan, its antenna tickling her cheek.

And as if on cue, a whole host of other monarchs descended, filling her garden with a vibrant, living kaleidoscope. They were her butterfly’s friends, its family, and they had come to visit. Every spring since, with the return of the warmth and the blossoming of her garden, the monarchs arrive. They fill the air with their graceful dance, a living testament to kindness, connection, and the enduring power of a lonely woman’s compassion. And Agustina, surrounded by her winged visitors, feels a little less alone, her heart filled with the quiet joy of a promise kept.