My little butterfly

She was a little girl
when I first saw her.
With a smile on her face
and a spring in her steps.
A beautiful butterfly;
her little flowery frock,
flapping by merrily.

Before I knew it,
she was a young girl.

No longer in a frock,
no longer as outwardly merry -
for fear of raised eyebrows,
of hushed whispers
and hurtful comments.

Every day,
I woke up early,
to see her through
my bedroom window,
waiting for a bus to school.

Some days I would just
stand and watch her
chatting to her friends.

Some days I would sing
from my window,
from the depths of my heart,
love songs unrestrained;
and be glad when
her friends nudged her
and pointed to my window.

Each day I prayed that
her bus would come late;
so I could just stand and
keep watching her.

But no, my prayers
would not be heard;
and the bus always came
way too early for me.

As the bus left,
my heart would sink.
The only solace that
it would bring her back
to me, in the evening.

And so, my days went by
between the morning bus
and the evening bus.

The evening was the
best time of my day.

As she got off from the bus
and took the long walk
back to her home,
I would follow along
each day without fail;
like a faithful old dog,
not wanting much else,
other than to be in the wake
of her slow conscious walk.

I tried to talk to her
a few times.
But her face would flush,
her nostrils would flame
and I would think it best to
wait for another day.

It was a secret that
the whole village knew -
my love for her;
but alas, she did not see it!

Or did she?

And was it her fear
of family opposing,
of responsibilities burdening,
of traditions overbearing?

I do not know, but
I like to think it was.

It wasn't that she could not see,
It was just that she would not see.

That's what I told myself.

And then I heard
that she was flying away,
flying far far away,
with someone whom
she had met along the way.

It pained me much.

But as I stood by
and watched her go
away from me,
I was not bitter,
I did not curse,
I did not cry.

In fact, I was happy for her;
happy, in some strange way
that even I did not understand.

I had nothing to give her,
nothing more to say.

All I had was a prayer
in my heart,
a prayer that
poured on to my lips,
a prayer for
my little butterfly.