The gray grass is not dappled with the snow;

It’s two banks have not shut upon the river;

The two lines of wet ink shined in the early morning New England sun. Robert reread the lines in mumbles through the his lips until he caught onto the rhythm. With light taps on the cover of the Old Testament beneath the sheet of paper, he found the meter in the poem. He always considered the feeling the words left to be more important than the meaning behind them. In the words of Edgar Allan Poe, Robert thought to himself, “Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.” Robert had made a practice of memorizing poets and their works. He would lie and tell his grandfather it was for tests or school assignments, and at first it was true. But he fell in love with poetry, and soon it became less about high marks and more about listening to the beautiful complexity of each stanza.

Once he was satisfied with the sound of the two lines, his focus shifted up to the horizon. In the distance, mills and factories defined the skyline. It seemed like a new six-story building was rising up every other day. He ran his fingers through the fresh dew on the grassy Massachusetts countryside, while letting himself indulge in fantasies about the coming months. Yesterday, he had proposed to Elinor. She said no of course, which was what part of him expected, but Robert had to try. Elinor was beautiful and brilliant; she could have any man she wanted. Initially he had tried to resist the feelings. She was out of his reach and he wanted all of his attention to be on writing. Robert couldn’t afford to give her the life she deserved anyway. He wasn’t a law school student or apprentice in an architectural firm. He was an aspiring poet. But loving her was no longer a choice he could control. She had wandered into his crosshairs, and now the chase was on for her hand. Young Robert, only nineteen years old, knew he needed to build a life around Elinor. Even though she didn’t understand, she respected and admired his intense desire to write. When he dropped out of Dartmouth to focus on writing, it didn’t help their chances of engagement, but it did show that he was bold and daring; another trait she admired. His entire family--aside from his mother--was stunned. They would sigh and say “I don’t know how a man with such a bright future could leave such a promising opportunity.” The worst reaction was the long, disappointed stare from his grandfather that made him reconsider every choice he ever made. In the end, he was confident in his decision and was sure Elinor would see that too.

Robert could see the dust trail of a buggy coming up the road. He flipped open his pocket watch. “Oh shoot!” He folded the paper and tucked it into the book. The thick copy of the Old Testament wiggled beneath his arm as he sprinted up the hill back to his grandfather’s house. The dust cloud was creeping up behind him and he was barely able to make out the outline of a man driving the horses. Once he reached the house he climbed up the stairs and flipped open the book to a marked page.

“Robert come downstairs! We need help unloading the wagon!” His mother called.

“Just a minute Ma!” He called back down the stairs. In the mirror he tucked in his shirt and wiped the sweat from his brow. Before he made his way downstairs, he grabbed a broom from the hallway closet.

She kissed him on the forehead. “Now go help unload.”

“Just finishing up my chores.” Robert grinned a little too wide and leaned the boom against the doorframe.

“Wait-” His mother grabbed his back belt loop. A tinge of fear ran through his spine. She tucked a loose end of his shirt into his pants. “I saw you running up the hill.” She whispered. It turned into a chuckle when she saw the fear in his eyes. “You’re just lucky your grandfather’s eyesight isn’t what it used to be.

“Robert, did you memorize that verse I asked you to this morning?”

“Yes sir. I-”

“Repeat it back to me.” The elder man stopped cutting into his ham and put down his fork and knife. He glared across the table at Robert.

He cleared his throat. “Timothy 5:8 But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.”

“Do you understand what that means?” The old man’s eyes were still fixed on Robert.

“Well I-”

“I’ll tell you what that means!” His fists were balled on either side of his plate. “It means that you need to be spending your time working or doing something of value with your life instead of writing these!” He threw a folded sheet a paper at Robert’s chest.

He choked on his words. “How- How did you-”

“If you’re going to go to such lengths to sneak around, you might think to not hide the evidence in my Bible!”

Robert’s grandmother rested her hand on the old man’s arm. “Remember what the doctor said, if you let your temper get too high, you’ll start feeling sick again.”

Robert hid the rage in his eyes by staring at the bread basket in the center of the oak table. His cheeks were hot and flushed, but it would be more embarrassing to stomp away upstairs like a child.

“All I am asking is that you start taking steps to become financially independent.”

Robert was silent.

“This poetry isn’t going to feed a family Robert. This is why that nice girl Elinor won’t marry you.”

Still, he was silent. He could feel his mother’s sympathetic eyes on him.

“Father can we just eat and discuss this later? Mother and I worked very hard on this meal.”

His grandfather went back to cutting his ham. “Robert, after dinner you and I need to have a talk.”

“Yes sir.”

After he helped his mother clear the table, Robert lingered in the kitchen.

His mother emptied his hands and added the plates to a stack. She sighed “You know your grandfather is waiting for you.”

“I know Ma, that’s what I’m avoiding.” Robert cracked a slight smile.

She tried to look serious, but he could see the sparkle of amusement in her eyes. She pointed towards the door. “Go.”

Robert entered the parlor doors to find his grandfather taking a shot of whiskey in his favorite armchair. His tie was loosened and his shoes were kicked off to the side. “Take a seat son.” The old man gestured to the armchair across from him.

Robert hesitated before sitting down. Trying to have a reasonable discussion while his grandfather was drinking was just as likely as a reasonable discussion when he wasn’t drinking.

“You want to be a writer?” He took another shot. “A poet right?”

“Yes sir.” Robert shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Tell me this: why?”

“Why?”

“Yes, why?”

“Uh-” This isn’t how he expected the conversation to start. “I love writing and I think I’m good at it I suppose.”

“You ‘spose?”

“Yes. I suppose.”

“No matter what you do in life Robert you can’t just ‘suppose’. You have to know.”

“Yes sir.”

“So tell me again Robert, why do you want to be a writer?”

“Because I’m good at it.”

“That’s better.” The old man handed Robert the glass bottle of liquor. “Here take a swig.”

He downed a shot and felt the warmth of the alcohol spread in his stomach.

“I don’t ‘suppose’ you’re going to give up on wanting to be a writer and see reason?”

“Honestly, no sir.” He could feel himself beginning to lose a little inhibitions. “I’m going to be a writer.”

“You know when I was your age I wanted to be a preacher.” He sighed. “But I couldn’t afford seminary school so I used my savings and bought a farm.” Robert’s grandfather looked across at him.

“You’ve told me this story.”

His grandfather raised his eyebrows and tipped the bottle to his lips. His eyes squinted as the whiskey flowed. “I’ll give you one year.”

“Huh?”

“One year to try your hand as a writer.” He slammed the bottle on the side table. “But after a year if you’re not a success, you get a farm out in the country and get that girl to marry you.”

“Are you serious?”

He nodded.

Robert stood up to shake his hand, but he waved it away.

“What are you waiting for?” His grandfather pointed up the stairs. “Times ticking!”

 

Robert took the poem out of his shirt pocket. After the fifteenth draft, he lost count. Two weeks after his grandfather’s deal, he read over the words of ‘My Butterfly’ one last time before sealing it in an envelope. He carefully addressed it to The Independent and made sure his name was legible. He pasted a stamp in the upper corner and kissed it for good luck.

“Here, let me too.” His mother took the envelope and kissed the seal three times. “For extra good luck.”

He laughed. “I think it’s ready now.” Robert dropped the letter into a box outside the postal office. As he watched it slide in, an all too familiar feeling crept inside of him and tugged at his heart: hope. He had done this several times before; walked down to the post office with his Mother, kiss the envelope, and watch it slip away from his hand into a box probably full with dozens of other submissions. This was a weekly occurrence, almost routine now. Then comes the waiting; the weeks spent twisted in knots of anxiety. The waiting to hear back with either a letter of rejection or offer to publish, was the worst part of the process. He was tired of obsessively checking the mailbox. This time he would receive neither of those, but instead a check of fifteen dollars and a spot for his poem in the November Issue of The Atlantic.