You've Changed.

You ask me who I am, what’s my story, everyone has one you say. What's yours? We are sitting on a bench in the middle of a park, the grass is green, taken care of, the sun is shining, flowers blooming, the sky blue, clouds on the horizon, glooming, and I tell you...

The way I love the city, the buildings, the sunset, I think it’s pretty. But also the beach, the horizon, the calmness of the waves, the way I feel at the sea.

And the flowers in the fields, the meadow, the way the tall grass sways, how it feels to play in the fields. I love the sunset, but also the sunrise, the surprise of the sky, the sherbert-colored clouds. But also the stars, the way the sky and the mountains mesh together, how you can’t tell the difference at 3:00 am, the specks of light that linger above, how you can find the ones you love in the brightest constellation.  

And maybe this isn’t what you were looking for, maybe, you wanted my family tree, my blood type, where I got the scar, on my left arm, but this is all I know.

I find comfort in the changing leaves how they morph just like you and me. How I find peace in knowing the tide will always come back in, how it cools the dips of my skin, the way the water on the Oregon coast coats my flesh purple, how it pierces my skin. The salt seeps into my cracked scars, just like the one on my left arm. The way cold water feels almost warm, how the numbing decays and warmth takes its place.

I think my favorite flower is a dandelion, it’s not particularly pretty but in the reflection of the petals, I see my sister and I.  We’re sitting on the grass, it’s green and taken care of, the sun is shining, flowers blooming, the sky is blue, and clouds on the horizon, glooming.  

She holds the flower under my chin, reflecting off my skin - the color yellow. “You like butter,” she says, it's something our mother taught us, who is swaying on the porch swing with my great-grandmother, who hadn’t yet forgotten my name.  She’s eating frozen marshmallows and hollering at us and we put the dandelion under each of their chins.  

So yes, roses are red, violets are blue, and zinnias are beautiful, tulips too, but dandelions are my favorite. When is see them growing in the meadow out past my great uncle’s fence 

I see that old brick house, on the road intersecting Hood St. The one with the blue trim and the old white car, the slit in the sidewalk I’d always trip over. I see the house across the way 

with the overgrown lawn, the man who always waved, and the scooter we’d ride down the driveway.

I see my sister and I sitting there - a dandelion in each hand. I can hear the laughter, the creaking of the hinges on the rotting away porch swing, the tomato bush on the left 

and the big oak tree on the right. I hear the crunching of the frozen marshmallows,

the sound of the paintbrush against the little wooden bookcases my great-grandma had bought us. The flash of the camera, the river dancing DVD on the TV, and the clickety-clack of the miniature dolls we used to play with. I see those pottery ladybugs by the fireplace, 

those plastic apples I’d always try to bite into, the smell of chocolate cake and strawberry ice cream, the little cabinet under the stairs we had decorated, the nook in the window, books piled in the corners, the bedroom on the second floor, the collection of peanuts books with charlie brown on the cover, the smell that lingered in the halls, woven into that awful pink carpet, that old garage with the tennis ball hanging from the ceiling, the circle table always tipped on its side, and the display of seashells between the first and second floor 

I know this isn’t what you were looking for, because I’m looking at your face, the way the sun reflects off of it a puzzled expression.  You just wanted to know what my parents do for work. right? How many siblings I have? Where I grew up? What’s my major? You just wanted the basics. Right? 

But, if you happen to get me flowers, please pick the dandelions in the meadow past my great uncle's fence, maybe you weren’t curious, but now you’ll know.  You’ll know why I hold them against my chest, why I look into the petals and hold them under your chin and whisper to you that you like butter.

I’m sorry for being like this, so detailed and disoriented, how I see things in flower petals and memories in thawed-out marshmallows, I know it’s not normal, I know I'm the kind of girl, you’ll laugh about with your friends over beer. I know I'm different, the way changing leaves make me cry, but don’t you think it’s beautiful? How we have the freedom to change over time. Don’t you think it’s wonderful? 

You ask me who I am. What’s my story? Everyone has one you say. What's yours?

I’m holding the iced mocha that you bought me in my hand, with my name scribbled in sharpie, “Emma” it reads. I want to tell you that I am begging to be loved, or liked, or maybe even just tolerated. For someone to listen, and to care, and I just can’t bear to be rejected again. But I don’t, I can’t come across as desperate.  

I mumble sorry under my breath, but before I can finish, you pick up the dandelion in the grass below us, you place it under my chin, waiting for the yellow to appear, only it doesn't.  

“You don’t like butter,” you say and I shake my head, and I peer at the tree above us, how its leaves form in the shades of red, orange, and yellow. “You’ve changed” you mumble and I nod, and you place the dandelion behind my left ear.