Cool Blue Veil

Late spring in a suburban Michigan yard. On my stomach, on the grass. Someone’s older sister learned the buttercup trick, probably at summer camp, probably with a boy, passed it on to the rest of us. But we don’t have buttercups, so dandelions it is. Only, I can’t see my own chin. Doesn’t matter. I know I like butter. I rake my hands through clover patches that my dad, no landscaper he, missed or never cared about anyway. Scanning with my keen young eyes, ever hopeful. There’s got to be one here somewhere. But no, never. My own front yard keeps its good luck hidden from me.

I wander along the side of the house. The patch of crocus beneath the living room window is in bloom. Delicate periwinkle and that exotic splash of yellow. Something about it, something I’ll never be able to explain, feels sensuous and more feminine than the other flowers. It makes me embarrassed, somehow. I am not yet ten years old.

The Shell boys are out next door, playing with their German Shepherd. I drift away from the fence between us, uncomfortable being close to them. All three intimidate me, though the two teenagers are really nothing more than vague cardboard cutouts of Older Boys. But my mother has made comments about their mother, and my father has made comments about their money. The gavel has fallen, and I keep my distance.

Evening is dropping a cool blue veil, but I’m already home. When I get cold, I’ll just walk inside. All the doors are unlocked, all the time. Besides, the fireflies will be coming out any minute. As long as they don’t land on me, I’m not afraid of them.