Mellow Yellow Monday

When my daughter was very young she took ballet lessons. She dressed all in pink from her tiny ballet slippers, her pink tights, pink leotard and yes, her very pink, fluffy tutu. I still have the image of her, so delectable, so sweet, ensconced in my brain.  My daughter always knew what she wanted and what she liked. There were dance recitals, even at the tender age of three and four where the little girls would perform and parents and grandparents would applaud as if the American Ballet Theatre had just landed in our small town. Our tears flowed and we tried to wipe them away as quickly as possible, but the rims of our eyes matched the little ballerinas outfits.

Relatives of the young ballerinas brought flowers to the performance. Everyone brought red roses for their little star. Everyone but me. My little ballerina did not like roses, her favorite flowers were daisies. Bright, cheerful, white and yellow daisies. While some parents looked at us askance, I knew when I saw my daughter’s face light up with joy and excitement that my precious ballerina was unique. I bought her a big bouquet of daisies and her face was lit up by happiness, her blond hair, gleamed in the sun, and her arms clutched her special flowers. My daughter, now seventeen, still knows exactly what she wants, she has always known. She planned her birthday parties four years in advance and while her blonde hair is now darker, she is as unique as ever, a vegetarian, a unique soul. Though she no longer loves daisies, she doesn’t know what her favorite flower is anymore and there’s plenty of time to figure that out, it’s perfectly alright.

For J.