These are my favorite flowers. They are buttercups and grow wild in the fields at home. When I was little, my poppa, granny and cousin, Rob, would pick them, tell me to raise my chin, hold the buttercup under my chin and always remind me that if yellow reflected on then underside of my chin, then that meant that I liked butter. Inevitably, the same outcome was true that I did like butter, but more than that, I liked the buttercup and loved the person holding the buttercup.
Today, when I was riding back home after the Easter egg hunt, the field before me was full of buttercups and I suddenly wanted to hold a buttercup under the chins of the little girls for whom I am responsible. I want them to like buttercups, love the person who is holding the buttercup and always have a fond memory of the delicate, simple, elegant little yellow flower that means so much to their mother.
After that, we went to the creek and played in the road. I know it sounds dangerous, but it really isn't.
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