When the Sun Rises in the West

The boy paused. Wouldn't it be dangerous to run down Main Street? Perhaps, but it was too late to stop now. He was already expecting to be severely reprimanded for abandoning his time-out. Main Street appeared to be completely empty. Not one store was open to attract customers. A couple cars were parked along the side, occupying the same spots they had for months. Only a few ravens perched on streetlights observed this strange spectacle the boy was putting on.

Too often the boy lost sight of his objective, but the butterfly stood out too much to remain hidden for long. Halfway down the street, the insect tried its most clever trick yet: it shot upwards in the air, going higher than any of the shops' chimneys. The boy strained his eyes as he watched, foolish enough to continue running at top speed.

So oblivious was he to the rest of the world that he failed to see the blue Chevy Coupe until he had run right into its fender. How could he have not heard its engine? Fortunately, the vehicle was not moving at the time. A middle-aged man honked angrily from behind the wheel, no doubt muttering curses under his bushy moustache. He apparently wasn't too concerned with the boy's well-being.

As if he was possessed, the boy sprang back on his feet and resumed running. By sheer luck – and perhaps fate – he found the butterfly again. It was already at the end of the street, and would soon be too far away to chase.

* * *

One street gave way to another as the chase went on. They soon reached the north end of town. The sun was almost touching the mountains, turning the scarce clouds a lovely orange. A slight spring chill was beginning to creep up the boy's legs. It was a perfect evening for an adventure such as this.

His second mishap came about when he arrived at a pool of mud. It was at the edge of a cherry orchard, where the runoff of the irrigation water had apparently been gathering for days. The boy slipped and fell as soon as his foot touched the slimy mud. His face hit the ground first, followed by his entire front side. He wasn't hurt too bad, but he sure was dirty. In this filth, he couldn't have been recognized.

The boy was wearied, so he was unable to get up as fast as he had from the car collision. Back on his feet, he began to panic. He was unable to find the red butterfly. The orchard before him offered a million hiding places for such a small insect.

Refusing to accept defeat, the boy began to move again. On the west side of the orchard was a small trail, and beside it a river. He thought it best to take the trail and peer into the orchard as he went.

Slop, slop, slop. The boy hadn't realized he was in his sock-feet until they were saturated with mud. From his point of view, his socks, shorts and t-shirt were all brown.

The sun would disappear altogether at any moment, and the boy was losing that enthusiasm which he had at the beginning of his quest. In fact, his determination seemed to disappear all at once. He hadn't seen the red butterfly in some time.

Now well into the orchard, tears began to stream down the boy's muddy cheeks. He knew his parents would be mad at him for running off. And all for what? In a fit of anger, he took a dash down the trail: one final attempt to find the butterfly. A delightful pursuit had become a crucial objective.

His third and final accident would be crashing into the elderly man who had recently come around a bend in the trail. Standing over six feet tall, he was not the slightest bit staggered by the collision. The boy looked at the waist of the man. The tail of his white shirt now sported a perfect brown silhouette of the boy's head.

Now perhaps the old man was a kindly person in most situations, but he could not cope with the fact that his Sunday shirt was ruined. “Why, you little!” he shouted, shaking his fist in a nearly comical manner. “What are you doing!?”

The boy was at a loss for words. This chase wasn't turning out to be such a good idea after all.

“Aren't you going to answer me? Why are you running about like that on a Sunday? I mean, where on earth are your parents?” As the boy began to sob again, the old man's expression slowly turned from anger to pity, and finally to resignation.

“Bahh,” breathed the man. “Go on. Go home.” With these words, the old man continued on his way as if nothing had happened – although he certainly did not forget about his newly muddied clothes.

The boy no longer knew what to do. How far away was he from home? He hadn't kept track during his wild run. The only thing left to do was to go home and accept his punishment. Sobbing harder than ever, the boy turned around and slowly began his walk home.

What happened next could only be described as a miracle. As the boy was looking down at the ground, a bright red set of wings fluttered not three inches from his face. The butterfly danced for the boy in a blissful but short-lived moment. It travelled up and up in large circles until it was too high for the boy to reach. It paused for just a second – as if to bid farewell to the boy – before gliding down towards the river.

The calm water perfectly reflected the butterfly as it flew just a foot overhead. Once it was across, it took a drastic turn upward. It was difficult to see against the backdrop of the mountains, but the boy didn't take his eyes off the butterfly for a second.

The image was engraved in the boy's mind for the rest of his life. Spreading out its wings to show their beauty, the butterfly burst past the horizon.

Only a few seconds later the sun would be gone behind the mountain for good, but it still had one duty to perform. The remaining pinhole of a sun gave out just a few beams of light. They erupted over the mountains and hit the butterfly as its wings were spread outward.

Oh, all the gemstones and flames that have tried to shine as brilliant, but could not! In this moment, the boy believed not that the butterfly was a king, but that it was the sun itself. A red deep as blood yet bright as the purest fire poured down on the boy as he stood in awe.

* * *

Life went on. The boy grew into a man, married, and had children of his own. But at many a sunset, he would step outside and pretend he was a child again. He would close his eyes and remember back to that night so many years ago. It wasn't difficult.

And there it was, all over again: the sun rising in the west because it was beautiful enough to do so.