Buttercups

Round, yellow buttercups are resting in a short, square vase outside on the table on the deck. I had no idea those weedy little gems of childhood glee were such sturdy little things. It took my four-year-old's curious and eager little mind and hands to make the first bouquet, which has lasted several days now. Who knew?

Most of the time there is a nebulous 30% of my brain and heart that detests living in such a congested area—that would be on the Virginia side of D.C.—but even here there are those small delights, so fleeting that the blink of an eye feels like too much time to waste on the mundane world. Buttercups are one of them.

There is a field across the street from where we live. It is a public park where the tiny U5's play at soccer in their pink, green, yellow, orange, blue, or some-other-color-of-the-rainbow jerseys—jerseys that swallow some of them down to their little knees only to end in shin-guard–packed black socks and cleats. On a few occasions, I have seen a group of men between the ages of, oh, let's say 20 and 35 out there engaging in some serious soccer scrimmage. And every morning and afternoon, dog-walkers and a steady stream of high schoolers wend their way across the field on a mission—the high schoolers to make it to school before the last bell and, afterward, home again as they escape the confines of corporate scholasticism, and the dog walkers to enjoy fresh air and canine company, at least until the former is disturbed by the necessity of picking up the odoriferous left-overs of the latter. And now and then a little family gathering will spontaneously appear.

Most of the day and most of the year, however, the field lies empty and forlorn. Out comes the lower, trembling lip, the plaintive look, the silent plea for a playmate or two. Winter is especially hard. That's when the official "Keep off the Grass" signs come out. Then the dejected field is under quarantine, and only law-breakers and other ne'er-do-wells would even think to set foot on it, though it is beautiful under it's occasional blanket of untouched snow.

With the return of spring, though, the field takes on a light, playful airiness that exudes happiness and well-being, and, rather than making a lonely, half-hearted appeal to the odd passerby to come and sit for a while, the field beckons, nay, challenges, any and all who come near to kick off their shoes, run their toes through the grass, and, yes, pluck the tiny, lemon-buttered bonnets right off their stems. The sheer joy of seeing a nearly endless carpet of innocent, little yellow flowers is enough to bring the smile welling up out of the central core of the body until it bursts forth upon the face.

Once again, the child in the adult comes out, and for a brief few days in Spring, the fountain of youth is at our fingertips, and in our legs and feet, and toes and tummy. There will be more than enough time to be a responsible big person again. But just for now, I want to go play in the field and pick more, and more, and more buttercups.