 |
|||
|
|
|||
|
Butterfly She peeks at me as she squats under a rack of women's blouses, mostly hidden from view. I smile at her tiny face and the dirt smudge across her cheek. Her eyes dance with playfulness as she reaches out and grabs at her mother's legs. I am sitting in a faux velvet chair outside the dressing rooms; the sentry while my daughter tries on evening gowns. We are shopping for her senior prom, only a month away. At 18, she is finishing her senior year with one foot planted firmly in our home and the other already out the door. In the fall, she will go to college and leave home, leave me. I struggle with her parting and can't believe the time will come so soon. It's as though I looked away, and now she's grown. I glance back at the little girl. She is sitting, her legs splayed out in front of her. She has scooted farther under the rack, yet I have a better view of her now. Her blonde hair is held back with purple butterfly barrettes, or maybe they are bows. I wonder if her mother let her pick them out herself, as I often did with my daughter, while waiting patiently with the hairbrush. I wave my fingers at her. She stares. I exaggerate a pouty face, sticking out my bottom lip. She hesitates, and then smiles, the corners of her mouth curling up toward the dirt smudge. I wiggle my fingers again, using both hands this time. She looks around until her eyes pause with comfort on her mother. Then she looks back at me and mimics my wave. Her fingers are tiny, her wave barely visible amid the hanging fabrics above her. The dressing room door creaks and I turn. "Mom, will you hand me the green one?" my daughter asks. I take the dress from my lap and pass it through the crack of the door. Settling back in my chair, I look to the rack of blouses. The little girl sits with her elbows resting on her bent knees, her chin in her hands, staring at me. Sighing, I put my elbows on my knees and rest my chin in my hands. She giggles and folds her arms over her chest. I do the same. She crosses her ankles, and I cross mine. I pat the top of my head; she pats hers. I laugh as I remember playing pat-a-cake with my daughter, her soft ringlets bouncing with each clap. I remember her standing on a chair at the kitchen table, covered in frosting as we made Christmas cookies. And when she would fall asleep on the couch, I remember the way her body felt, curled against mine. "Mom?" I turn toward the voice and my daughter emerges, dazzling in emerald satin. She twirls, turning like a ballerina, shimmering in color. She is tall, with long legs and a woman's figure, unlike the little girl body I knew for so long. Her blonde hair settles softly around her shoulders as she strikes a model's pose. Tears spring to my eyes. "Mom, are you crying?" she asks, rolling her eyes. She leans over, the satin whispering, and hugs me. "You're so emotional." She kisses the top my head as I wrap my arms around her, careful to keep my tears away from the expensive fabric. "I'm not crying," I say. "These lights are just bothering my contacts." I blink and we laugh at my weak excuse. She steps away and turns to the mirror. "What do you think?" she asks, turning front to back. I swallow as memories of her eighteen years flash through my thoughts, blurring the image of this beautiful young woman standing in front of me. "I think you are amazing," I whisper. We pause with each other, then ooh and aah over the dress as we talk about the price and carefully check the material for flaws. After we settle on this being the one, she disappears back into the changing room. I take a tissue from my purse and dab at my tears. With a start, I remember the little girl. Turning to the clothes rack, I look for her. My eyes search for her blonde hair and beautiful hazel eyes. I bend over and look under the racks of clothes. Kneeling, I find a butterfly barrette. It's as though I looked away, and now she's gone. Tricia L. McDonald is a published author who lives, teaches, writes and creates in Grand Haven, Michigan. She has two children away in college, ages 18 and 21. She shares her empty-nest home with her husband, Mike, along with two dogs and three cats, so actually the house is rarely empty. She is an active member of Peninsula Writers in Michigan.
|
|||
|
