Buttercups

I grew up in a small little house about a mile from where I live now (if you walk). It was a small tan brick house with a big tree in the middle of the yard that I used to swing on. There was a porch that started on the side of the house and wrapped around to the back of the house. If you went down some steps, there was another, smaller porch that held a hot tub. I miss this house. In the back of the house was a little patio with a wooden swing. Two small pine trees stood on either side of the yard where my sister and I had planted them when we were young. In the very back of the yard, a taller pine tree stood from my parent's first Christmas in the house.

I hadn't really thought about how much I missed that house until I was walking across campus the other day. I was walking past this wooded area where the sun was shinning down. In the middle of the ray of light, little buttercups were reaching for the light. They were so bright and beautiful in the brown crispy leaves from the fall.

 They made me think of this first home and the buttercups that used to blossom by our neighbors pool. My sister and I used to pick them. I would hold a blossom up to my chin and say, "Do I like butter?"

A yellow light would shine on my chin and my sister would say, "Yup, you definitely like butter." She would pick her own flower and hold it to her chin. She would say, "How about me? Do I like butter?"

"Oh yea," I would say, "You love butter!"