'Black Tulips Of Time'

On Saturdays we would ruthlessly collect frolicking butterflies in the garden by swatting them with our badminton rackets. Any we could find. And gently, gently after each successful catch, we would gather them all into a small plastic bag. We would try hard to get them with their wings intact. More often than not though, the wings would come away as powder which we were careful not to get anywhere near our eyes. We'd go blind [or mute, if it was (God forbid) ingested], or so our mothers warned us. Thus placing a faithful washing ritual at the end of each of our sessions. For coffee and biscuits followed after.

Prior to us getting clean again: we would return to the creeper-covered wall with our sacrifices in tow. Offerings to the Black Spider Queen. She with an abdomen of freckled but beautiful bright red markings.

One by one the fallen butterflies were picked and carefully placed on the web. And movement (why we wanted their wings intact; for beating), set her silk to the tune of dinner bells. She would come and take them: mummified, preserved. These privileged morsels were shown the heart of the nest, private only to the Queen and them.

One day she was no longer there. And so we no longer hunted.

He started a family at the age of seventeen, perhaps earlier (I forget). While I keep noticing how often it rains in November. And how often things change.

( _")