Beneath the print of the giant green pear on the cafe wall, conversation bubbles. Plates chime against each other, the chef’s knife knock-knock-knocks away the part from the whole, and every so often chairs whine against the floor as they change partners. Fiestaware plates make brightly colored polka dots on the tables. Children too busy to eat prowl the crowded room in a game no one made up, and everyone enjoys. It’s sunny, and almost spring. It will always be almost spring when we are together for the last time.
Today, I came here with me, hoping for a chance to be seen by you. It takes me a while to realize I have no idea what to say about where I have been, to acknowledge that what happens now will be the same-old-nothing-new of beauty and insecurity that it has ever been.
The 29 butterflies always lead me somewhere that is just beyond reach. I watch the pink one for a while, as it floats along, then I follow the blue one, notice the orange one next. Pretty soon (but I really can say how long), I find myself at the end of the beginning. I have butterfly-ed the best I could.
The rest is up to you.
ps here is a slide show of the still photographs:
what is beautiful remains 
These are divine. So her. So you.