What’s Up, Buttercup?

I’ve fallen into yellow since Kimme wore sunflower lace beside her Godspeed cake on Sunday.

That night, I searched online for a shirt-in-sunflower-shades, closing tabs for the thrill of the thrift; prospecting for gold.

Yellow.

The word lingers in the voice of a little girl, summoned from bygone Baby Van Goghs, bathed in sunshine and lemon rind, yellowing at the edges.

The real Van Gogh coveted painted light and life; brilliant Sunflowers, rolling Wheatfields, The Yellow House.

And yet, I have never liked this color, have I?

This morning at Amwell Lake, cheered on by abundant orioles, common yellowthroats, I shot Stinking Willie from all sides, grass stains seeping into black leggings.

I was back in Cambridge, lost in Storey’s Field amidst ragwort rimming the most intriguing fen, where once I spotted a fox and again, a Muntjac.

Saffron stories turned to suffering along Woosamonsa, as a Swallowtail careened into my car grill, dropping sallow atop double yellow lines.

Gripping fingers, climbing arms, crossing shoulders, caressing dead peach limbs, grasping lilac leaves, toppling away on brisk breezes, broken wings.

Hues of happiness and tragedy. Please forgive me.

What’s up, Buttercup? I greet my son as he climbs the stairs — and there it is again!

Will tomorrow spin more yarns of yellow?

I await their coming in glory.

By Diana Lasseter Drake