on her first all-state chorus trip, she spent her spending money and her free time finding just the right gift for me: a butterfly wind chime.
she was so young, i was so touched.
she still is, i still am.
decades later, it hangs right outside my studio window. i see it when i look up from my writing table.
though i still look at the wind chime and see the loving face of my young eldest child as she handed it to me, eager for me to receive her gift with the same enthusiastic caring and love with which she selected it, i see more now . . .
i see two butterflies intertwined – sometimes crossing each other, always attached at the core.
it has been restrung many times, this wind chime, and still it moves – is active – doesn’t rust.
through storms and gentle breezes, it makes lovely, delicate music.
it is pink, her favorite color.
the color of tenderness,
of unconditional love,
of compassion, empathy,
pink is the color of hope
of the sense that all will be well.
we came home from the hospital today, my girl and i, and we are tickled pink about that.
i love being a mother, and i love telling stories. because i craved a challenge, i am writing 100 stories in 100 consecutive days. today’s story was an easy one with a good and happy ending. to keep reading along, mash the black “right this way” button in the orange bar at the top of the screen, enter your name and email address, then submit. doesn’t cost a thing but a few minutes of your time.