butterfly in the mausoleum

It’s a pilgrimage I undertake
whenever I’m nearby
I go again and again
to visit cherished relatives
so long gone
seeking the living among the dead
saying nothing
that hasn’t been said before

there is no ghostly reply
nor do I expect one 
perhaps that is the attraction
the chance to speak without interruption
to those who had so many opinions

I tell them about their namesakes:
small children unlikely to attend this place
there is no lure for them here
familial attachment in name and history only 

I look for a sign
some small bit of life in this cold mausoleum
marble stretching across the floors
and to the ceilings in coffin-sized slabs
something more colorful than dying flowers
or faded photographs
and there, lonely on a ledge
a butterfly or faithful facsimile
bright as stained-glass shards in a quiet chapel
ready to flit with the aid of human hand
to a final resting place
next to my parents’ names and cremains 

This earthly pilgrimage brings me here
figuratively and literally
more often as I age
I am losing more friends than I make

(perhaps I am the butterfly
pinned to earth and all its wearying woes
lighting upon the tombs)

I choose to believe
that my presence is not unnecessary
I am here to retrieve memory
and breathe into the inanimate
metamorphosis. 

Liz McFadzean