A Wedding Invitation by Alice J. Wisler Read Free Book Online Page A

so for a long time I held an image of these minute, furry bugs puked into crystal dishes and then the puke magically turned into a silk sac that, for some reason, hung upside down, possibly because it was still too nauseous to stand upright.
    I watch Dovie lock the shed door, place the keys in her pocket, and then pick up the cage filled with monarchs. We make our way to the driveway where her truck sits. With a gentle swing, she puts the metal cage into the cab. Then we hop in.
    Little left for work about the time Dovie and I headed into town for church. As she drained her mug of coffee and finished two slices of toast spread with coconut butter—a product she discovered when she lived in Dundee, Florida—Little said she hoped not to be working next Sunday. “I can go to church with you then,” she said as she wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I do miss it when I have to work the morning shift. Asking whether or not the customers want lettuce and tomato on their burger is not at all as glorious as singing hymns to Jesus.” Then she stood in her uniform outside by the porch, waiting for a coworker to pick her up and take her to Wendy’s.
    Although Beanie has no plans for the day, she declined Dovie’s invitation to join us for church, and now she refuses to come to the butterfly release.
    “I don’t do silly sentimental things,” she states. “Besides, I have some potatoes I need to boil for dinner tonight.”
    “So where are we going?” I ask Dovie when we are about a mile out of her driveway. With a firm hand I secure my camera on my lap.
    “Today it’s the Amber Grove Cemetery.”
    I nod, recalling having previously heard the name of this particular cemetery. Uncle Charlie is buried there, with a headstone that has a motorcycle engraved in it. My great-uncle liked to ride fast, and my relatives tell me that his Harley out-sped any police car on the Forsyth County squad. He also made moonshine, borrowing a recipe from Scottish immigrants who settled in the Appalachian Mountains.
    “This is a group of parents who have had children die,” Dovie tells me.
    My tongue freezes like one of the orange popsicles I ate growing up.
    “They ask me to come to the cemetery every year for a butterfly release. You’ll see that parents of deceased children have a strong connection to the butterfly.”
    The truck hits a pothole; we steady ourselves. “Why is that?”
    But my question gets lost as we pull into the cemetery and Dovie sees a mass of balloons. “Balloons, too,” she says as her truck bounces along the uneven narrow road toward dozens of parked vehicles.
    She finds a spot for her truck under the branches of a mammoth oak tree and then turns to me. “Balloons and butterflies are free.” Her eyes hold flecks of light. “And when they sail into the sky, they eventually disappear. But their beauty remains in our hearts. These parents feel the connection.”
    I sit a bit longer as she makes her way over to a group partially veiled by an assortment of colorful bouncing balloons. The people are all wearing dark blue T-shirts with white words and some sort of indistinguishable emblem. I watch Dovie speak to a woman and then my aunt comes back toward the truck, her strides long and purposeful.
    She takes her cage of butterflies out from the back of the cab and smiles at me. “We’re at the right place and on time.”
    Reluctantly, I follow half a dozen steps behind her with my camera strapped around my neck.
    A woman in a white ball cap greets Dovie. They exchange words and then my aunt places her butterflies on top of a mossy tree stump.
    As I get closer I see that the shirts this group is wearing read The Compassionate Friends . The design under the words is two hands with an image of a person above them. I wonder if this is some kind of religion. Standing beside my aunt as the others in the gathering talk quietly, I observe faces. If it is a religious sect, their god must not be too generous because no one