By Andrea Damic 

my hands covered in colors / green for the grass / blue for the sky / red for the tulips swinging in the wind / the purple I inadvertently created on my tiny palms, when red and blue touched, was fashioned into butterflies fluttering around the red hot tulips / butterflies don’t like tulips, my older sister exclaimed looking at my artwork / she was of course right / she was a bit of a know-it-all / and a teenager / the worst combination / I was nine going on…much older / dreaming up my own world / our art teacher showed us some famous collages during an art class in school / she asked us to create our own / I cut and cut and cut / I cut countless pieces in all shapes and sizes / and a beautiful abstract artwork blossomed in front of me, beaming back / my craftsmanship / my own Picasso / I was told he was very famous, and dead, which was unfortunate as I had questions / my sister disliked Abstract / why wouldn’t my butterflies like tulips, I asked her / why wouldn’t they like my bright hot red tulips / I continued my monologue, stubborn and argumentative / she rolled her eyes and left me be / the next morning in school they told us our teacher died / pneumonia / it was a middle of the summer / I remember her being fragile like the butterflies embroidered on her bag / I remember them trembling in mid-air as if planning a take-off / it was a closed casket / we knew she was there, underneath the heavy oak cover, alone in the darkness / we avoided each other’s eyes afraid of what we might see / we were stuck in a beleaguered spot without an exit / the procession was long / my thoughts drifting away / I was at my grandma’s funeral / she was also in a closed casket / I was a couple of years younger / I couldn’t comprehend Grandma being trapped inside / I thought they made it up to scare me, to make me behave / I was a restless child / staying motionless went against my nature / I was once told I’d taken after her—she was an artist too / I remember that day vividly / being so very quiet—a teddy-bear quiet / I didn’t cry, afraid to make a sound / my Mum’s touch brought me back to this new reality / to yet another casket / six feet under / my classmates and I walked single file throwing down white roses / one by one they fell with a thud / I was the last one in line / I opened up my school bag and before anyone could stop me, I scattered my butterflies into the hole / a silent gasp bouncing around as they twirled in mid-air, waltzing gently in the morning breeze before peacefully settling atop the dark oak / there was something soothing about them / when I finally looked up, I saw a faint smile in her son’s eyes / he remembered her butterflies as well

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 Andrea Damic (Sydney, Australia) wears many hats, as her daughter frequently reminds her. She’s an artist, writer and contributing editor for Pictura Journal, currently working on her first hybrid chapbook. She’s also an accountant with a master’s degree in Economics. Her literary art has been recently published or is forthcoming in Bending Genres, Does It Have Pockets, JMWW, Roi Fainéant Press. She has also recently won the SmokeLong Quarterly’s Trainwreck Micro Competition (Sep 2025). In her imaginary free time, you can find her fiddling with her website https://damicandrea.wordpress.com/.