I recently wrote a story about how strong you made me. I read it aloud in my Nonfiction class and I cried. It starts off like this:
She was turquoise. An opaque blue-to-green or green-to-blue mineral that some might mistake for mint, teal, or aqua. But no, she was turquoise. She was other things, too. She was Broadway. She was coffee. She was the piano. She was bread and butter. She was "I'll just have water with lemon." I suppose I am some of these things, too.
She always called me her butterfly. I never really knew why or how this came about, but I was okay with it. Who wouldn't want to be the thing that flutters and flies?
For some reason, I can't recall my first memory of her. I just picture her there, carrying me at the hip longer than most mothers do. Attached to her shoulders. Legs wrapped around the ribs and abdomen. Arms folded around, making a necklace out of my skin just for her. If I was not being held, I was looking up to her or looking for her--the way you look up at tall buildings or for keys that go missing. As a child, I believed her body was a nest for me and that I would always have a home here.
I knew I had finally made it--I had finally been doing alright once my mom looked at me yesterday, less than twenty days away from college graduation, and said, "You have blossomed into a flower--into a butterfly. No, you're actually a tree. You're a palm tree. You're everywhere."
I suppose she is some of these things, too.