Gentle Hands

       The air was cool, and rested easy on his big shoulders. He couldn't forget Vietnam; everything he saw  reminded him of it - the bulrushes by the pond reminded him of the elephant grass, the lily pads made him think of the small flowers that he had failed to notice until he had left. That was why he was here, at the quiet park - because he couldn't forget. And as fine as it was to remember  - the hard work, the job itself - he desperately wanted to forget.

         Standing by the pond, he stared, watching the swans glide effortlessly around the pond. A smaller movement, closer to his feet caught his eye. Shifting his gaze, his eyes came to rest on a blue butterfly struggling in the water. He cocked his head, thinking he could walk on; pretend he never had seen it. He was good at that, walking away from things he didn't want to see.  Or he could splash water over it and watch its topaz wings sink into the pond.

          Crouching down to splash water over the floundering butterfly, he hesitated.

          On sudden inspiration he slid his fingers beneath the butterfly. There was a soft pleasure - he couldn't quite place it - in feeling the butterfly's legs find purchase on his fingers and hold on. Gently  he lifted the wet butterfly from the water.

          Straightening he marveled at the way the blue wings seemed to almost glow, even while laying still on his fingers.

          Long moments that felt short dried and warmed the butterfly until it gave several small flops with its wings, bringing an unexpected smile to his face. Its long black legs began to work themselves, pulling the dark body and silk wings to a dry spot on his hand. Propping its wings up it seemed to close its eyes and go to sleep.

         And he was content to sit and watch it. No one had considered him a safe man, and not many of them had been willing to turn their back on him. They had been afraid of him and he had known it. Even enjoyed it.

         Now with a butterfly sunning in  his hand, trusting it to be a safe place, he wondered why seeing people cower or flinch had been enjoyable in any way.

        Rested , the butterfly walked up to his fingertips and gave a couple testing flaps before taking off. There was a flash of topaz in the sunlight, and than it was gone, fluttering away.

         He rubbed his hands together and kept walking, shoulders less hunched.

         Later, much later, as the light faded and stars came out, he could still feel the small tickling feet of trust in gentle hands.