I make dandelion necklaces and crowns for my sisters in Nanny’s yard. A yellow burst of sunshine shines on my face. Later, Mom will carry little Maria, asleep in her arms, down the slate steps to the car in the driveway. A crushed, faded dandelion crown will droop from my sister’s clasped fist, the wrapped stems uncurling, the yellow petals withering, one less flower for a bee to bury in, one less flower to burst into white, fluffy seed that we’d blow into the wind.

Right now, Buttercup flowers reflect on our skin. Barb peers under my chin to see the yellow spot, straggly hair falls around her face, pearly white teeth in an open smile of “Oh, I see the buttercup yellow!”