Yesterday was the fortieth day.
In the Philippines, the fortieth day after the passing of a loved one is when their soul finally ascends to heaven. For forty days after death, the soul is able to explore the world in a way that was before impossible in life, as a spirit liberated from the confines of our physical limitations. Though not the most orthodox or canonically Catholic of spiritual concepts I liked this idea, especially for Tom, who had endured the hardships of travel across the world while subject to itineraries and plane tickets and luggage and all manner of human inconvenience, including an aging body. I also liked the idea of a measure of time for the spirit to linger, a chance to visit friends and loved ones to comfort, bless them and say goodbye.
And so I ventured back to the cemetery where Tom had been laid to rest, seeking out the lone, two-trunked tree that sheltered the burial site in the section where priests were laid, in the little corner dedicated to the auxiliary bishops who had served Detroit.
Tom’s grave was still bare, without a headstone or grass, only a mound of newly turned earth. There was no marker, no indicator of the person who had been laid there or the monumental life that had touched the earth for more than nine decades.
The day was hot, the sky cloudless. The only sounds were of birds and the faint drone of a lawn mower being driven somewhere between the headstones on the other side of the cemetery. A small, warm breeze bent the grass gently over the graves, stirring tiny Vatican flags planted on some of the priests’ headstones.
During the initial burial, I had stood with Tom’s family and loved ones, our faces stricken by tears as the casket was lowered into the ground. There had been no way to see beauty at that moment. But now, alone in the quiet sunlight of this day, there was a deep sense of peace. Breathing it in, I sat on the pavement stones next to the mound and took out the little silver rosary ring that Tom had sometimes used for his prayers.
With apologies to the Divine, I began the rosary, stumbling awkwardly through prayers I had not spoken in decades. Tom had for many years prayed the rosary at least three times a day, a practice I had observed in Rome and while waiting in the hospital with him for doctors to make their rounds. I, on the other hand, was not as adept. I’m sorry, I thought as I turned the ring in my hand. I’m not sure how to work this thing. I’m doing the best I can.
I tried to concentrate, struggling to remember what mysteries were appropriate for the day, but was also distracted by fear that I would be trapped in the cemetery, which was to close shortly. Due to my work schedule I had arrived late, and so glancing nervously at my watch with frustration and more apologies to the Divine I began to pray faster. HailMaryfullofgracetheLordiswiththeeblessedartthou….I began to feel ridiculous. A fraud that didn’t deserve to be there. Tears began to stream down my face.
It was at that moment that the butterfly appeared.
It fluttered down gracefully, landing on the pavement stone directly in front of me. Its wings were black, tipped in orange and white.
I looked round to see where the butterfly had come from or if there were flowers nearby that had drawn it, but there was only grass and the tree branches above.
I looked at the butterfly.
The butterfly looked at me.
I had paused in surprise, startled by the arrival of this little messenger. But as we continued to regard one another I started to pray again—softly, slowly. Time seemed to stand still. My anxiety disappeared and the words began to flow.
The butterfly stayed, as if listening.
A smile broke open on my face, my heart lifting. Hello, Tom. Thank you. Godspeed.
And with a flutter of wings like a benediction the butterfly flew off, leaving me in the sunlight and silence.
