ong ago on a summer's eve, within a splendid forest among roving hills, there was a caterpillar—plump as a cucumber, green like a lime. In fact, she was rather late in making a chrysalis for herself. Unknown to the tardy worm, as she was making it, her cocoon just so happened to bottle up all the magic of the season. A vintage that held within its frame starlight at midnight, thunder showers in the waking hours—all the bright colors that the splendid sun empowers. Such things are dreams painted on butterfly wings. The transformation was sudden and splendid: out she came, a butterfly with no equal. She soared like a vision, enchanting the forest and hills wherever her wings graced.

Some time later a house was built on top of the roving hills—a charming little house dressed in bunches and bunches of honeysuckles. The little honeysuckle flowers made the air so sweet you could taste honey on the tip of your tongue. In this house lived Grandpa Otis. He stood on the first day of summer, waiting for all his grandchildren to arrive.

They came running, freed from schools and suburbs, freed from homework, household chores, and all the yearly responsibilities that confine a child from the joys of June. They came running, and all at once he was surrounded with hugs and love, all the children talking at once.

A day at his place was what childhood memories are made of. Mornings would start with a mountain of pancakes, and in the afternoons they would fish and go swimming in the creek. At twilight they caught fireflies in jars and danced to music. During the night he would tell stories under the shimmering stars.

All was magic and mayhem, and what his grandchildren loved to do most of all was catch butterflies.

“The butterflies!” they would cry with delight.

So many butterflies would come, enjoying the sweet honeysuckles, fluttering miracles of emerald, ruby, sapphire jewels that drank and danced amongst flowers. It seemed a rainbow had settled over the house.

“Quick, Grandpa, quick!”

Out came the nets and the children would swing away, running fast as their legs could manage, bounding through the forest and over the hills, dusted with wondrous gusts of summer wind.

Grandpa Otis watched them with fondness and love. Deep in his heart he wished it would never end, but vacation only lasts so long. Summertime faded away into that low autumn glow and the children had to return to school, to chores, and their busy lives. On the last summer's day, the grandchildren said their goodbyes and left Otis to himself.

he seasons played their melodies as part of time's passing. Fall browned and Winter frosted, Spring bloomed, and Summer came once more, but the grandchildren who used to visit every June had grown up and moved on. For grown-ups often forget their elders, as they are busy trying to be an adult themselves—a sad but simple truth.

Otis, now at the old age of 87 was sitting on his porch, honeysuckles sweetening the air.

“This summer will be my last. Today is the day I die,” declared Otis to the open air. But he mused, “my last day? It's a pity that I should die alone.”

He pondered how before this loneliness it had been the grandchildren and their summer visits, their love, that gave life such meaning. Before that it had been Grandma Margret. But she had passed. Even longer ago, thought Otis, he himself had been a child catching butterflies. He smiled, warmed by the company of kind memories.

The day was fine and fair. Halfheartedly he watched clouds gliding over a blue sky like cotton kingdoms. A gentle wind touched his tear-covered cheeks as he waited for his final day to pass. That's when the Summer Butterfly happened by, dancing on the breeze. She knew she owed her magic to this man and his grandchildren—all magical things do—for it is the love and grace of others that gives magic to the world. She knew this, and knew that Otis's time was up. In a flurry of colors there she was before him, the great butterfly.

She landed on his plum sized nose.

“What a wonder! What a specimen!” said Otis. A youthful spark twinkled in the old man's eyes, the kind that kindles youthful mischief. “If I were younger, I would chase you.”

In answer the marvelous insect flew round and round his head in a challenge. Otis rubbed his hands together.

“Perhaps I still have time?” he said. “Perhaps I shall catch you after all—why not one last go?”

The butterfly was pleased. She landed herself on the front porch, waiting.

“Give me a moment,” said Otis rising.

He hurried back with a cane in one hand and a catching net in the other. The butterfly fluttered her great wings and off they went. His steps were at first feeble, then a steadiness came into his stride and he found he no longer needed his cane and took up the net in both hands. Now he was running, and all quite suddenly his age was cast off like an old coat, and he was once more a boy—wildl and strong. He jumped, and laughed. He tumbled about. He chased the insect further and further through woods into a field of endless green. This was a place he had never seen before. The boy shot up in the air like a rocket and down came the net, catching the butterfly. The boy held the captured thing, grinning.

“That was good fun,” he said, then realized that he was lost. He wandered for a bit, still not letting the butterfly go, when a voice called to him.

“Hello,” said the voice which belonged to a little girl.

“Hello yourself,” Otis said back. There was something very familiar about her.

“Did you catch the butterfly? Did she make you young again?” she asked.

“Yes and yes,” Otis replied.

“The same thing happened to me," she said, very happy at his answer. “I caught her too and I let her go and she brought me here. I plan on exploring the rest of the forest, and now that you are young too we can explore together. Would you like to join me?”

“I don't know.”

“It's easy,” she said. “All you have to do is let go.”

He thought of his old life of how alone he had been. Otis took a few steps back.

“No!” he yelled. “I remember now I was near death and now I'm young again. Is this death?"

“It's a new beginning,” she smiled reassuringly.

Otis took a step back.

“I don't want to die. I want to go home. And I want to stay young forever.”

He turned and ran so hard, so fast, that when he opened his eyes he found himself no longer in the fields of endless green, but back at his own home and the familiar woods of roving hills. He looked at the butterfly caught in the net. It was clear that the game was over, that he was meant to move on, to let go, as the little girl had suggested. But as it often happens, too often, self-pity and fear set in.

The boy looked to his captive.

“If I keep you, I'll be young forever.”

He would take this magic and use it to restore everything he had lost. The butterfly knew this and fluttered her wings in protest. But the worst got the better of Otis. He placed the butterfly inside a glass frame, and the moment the pin stuck he had pinned his own fate to the insect.

The magic of love was corrupted. He felt himself change back to an old man, but not quite whole—somewhat faint and see-through, having lost a foothold in this world.

The butterfly tapped against the glass, but after a time it gave up and was still. All of her color drained. From then on the woods and house, just like Otis and the butterfly, lost their magic. The once-sweet honeysuckles withered. Cursed, Otis lingered, not aging, far longer than he was supposed to. In his shame and fear he lost any sense of time or purpose.

Life moved on without him. The sun and moon chased one another as they tend to do, and Otis was caught up in their rhythm. At night he would stare out his bedroom window and watch the stars shine, then fade. During the day he would sit on his porch in his rocking chair, sorry for what he had done.

ne night as Otis star-gazed, there was a commotion that roused the old man out of his limbo. From his little window he could see where the noise came from. Not far off in the roving hills there was a festival. It was a merry procession—men, women, and children gathered to celebrate the Fourth of July. They came to watch jugglers and fire-breathers and eat lots of food. They lit fireworks that shook the earth beneath their feet and sizzled high in the midnight sky. Music and merriment was tangible in the summer air.

Without a thought Otis wandered out of the house and made his way towards the festivities. In his limbo he’d forgotten about summer and its magic, but now he recalled all its splendor, trying his best to join in the celebration. Otis called to them but no one heard, nor was he seen in their happy midst. He was a ghost that drew no attention.

“So this is my fate?” he mused. “Not to live, or to die. Only to linger.”

After a time the people stopped dancing and juggling, put away their instruments, paying him no mind.

With his head hung low, he returned home. As Otis walked back it dawned on him just as the sun rose—he had lived and loved, but in the end had not let go.

“I have mixed love with fear! What a poison I've made,” he said aloud.

He stormed up to the wall where the glass frame was hung, opened it and pulled out the pin. He cupped the butterfly in his hands gently, as one would hold a dream. He whispered an apology to the friend he had wronged.

“I have deserved to live like this, but not you, not anymore. I have been a selfish fool. I am so sorry, please forgive me.”

The wings fluttered, bright colors shimmered, glowing in the dark. In that instant she sprang to life, overjoyed at her freedom, forgiving him instantly. After all, the butterfly was love incarnate. As love was restored Otis realized he felt very solid and weary. He stumbled over to his bed to lay down. The butterfly hovered over his head as he pulled the blanket over himself.

Otis looked up. “Thank you,” he said. “Goodbye, friend. I will die alone.”

With that he fell into a contentful sleep. At last he was at peace with his fate.

The butterfly, however, was not. She fluttered her wings with revolution. This would not be how it ended for the old man, the butterfly would see to that. She stayed up late into the night working her magic, beating her great wings. She caused an enchanted wind to swell. With all her power she gathered up the sweet honeysuckle and sent it out into the world—a memory, a message, a beacon. The enchanted winds found the grandchildren, grown. It spoke to their spirits of fireworks, bare feet, and a grandpa's love.

The wind gathered up one, then two, then all of them at once. The sweet taste of honeysuckle on the tips of their tongues, causing them to remember and run back to the charming house dressed in flowers. It was once more a race back to Otis, back to childhood. Free from business meetings and financial responsibilities, from the self-inflicted chains of adulthood.

Otis awoke to many familiar faces, faces that had aged. Yet their eyes were the same—youthful, looking at him with love and admiration. Overcome with joy he let out a deep laugh, happy for the first time in many years.

“How I have missed you, little ones.”

All at once they burst into questions and stories till their voices became indistinguishable joyous babble. All of them crowded the small bedroom with life and love. Otis looked out to the window and saw the Summer Butterfly waiting, and he knew.

“My dears,” he said at last. “Would you mind opening the window?"

No sooner had it been done than in poured hundreds of butterflies. There was a moment of wonder, then remembrance.

“The nets! The nets!" they all cried in unison.

They rushed out the room and down the stairs, pushing and jumping out into the front yard filled with a sunset of butterflies too numerous to count, flapping, fluttering, covering the house. The grandchildren were tickled by their soft velvet wings. The setting sun was warm and golden in Otis’s bedroom, and rose red as the shadows danced on his wall. Outside he could hear the sound of children, and for a few precious moments they were the children he’d cared for, once more spending summer at their grandpa’s.

“What a perfect day,” he thought. “A splendid way to end summer.”

Then, as all must, he finally let go, leaving this world. But it was not the end. He opened his eyes, once more young and fresh. The butterfly perched on his nose to say goodbye.

“Where is this?” asked the boy.

But the butterfly only took off soaring high and was gone.

“Wait!” he called. “I don't know where I am. I don't know which way to go. ”

“I do.”

A familiar voice answered. He spun round, and there he saw the little girl from before who looked so familiar.

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Margret.”

The boy's face lit up and he remembered at last.

“Oh how I've missed you,” he said and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Come on,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “There’s still plenty of fun to be had.”

“There is?”

“Yes, lots! I have been waiting for you.”

Off they rushed to explore the fields of endless green in a place of endless summer and eternal love, for summer weaves a magic all its own. And even though this story has come to a close, if one remembers to love, to live, and let go, then life will never truly end.