Feast After Famine: Remember This, Please

I hope they remember this. Sitting in the field amidst the weeds and long grass, squinting under the glare of the sun, picking clover. They watch me wrap one stem around another, tie a quick knot beneath the flower top and repeat the simple movement over and over until a chain develops and snakes down the sidewalk. 

They imitate me. Efforts that end in frustration and pouty frowns. Or triumphant exaltation.

When they think back on their childhood, I don't want them to recall the shouting, the timeouts, the quick temper and impatience. 

I want them to remember the long, lazy afternoon we strung together 549 clover and stretched a chain from our house to the next and beyond. A magnificent string of white weedy flowers that wowed neighbors and bedazzled a city sidewalk. 

I want them to remember their excitement, their awe at seeing the chain spread out past three houses. Remember the sweet smell of the clover in their hands and the sun on their skin, the feel of the tall wet clover tickling their tiny legs. 

I want them to remember it. Like I will. 

Click here to read more of Dana's Feast After Famine.