Lingering in the sweet, dewy grass, Marybeth and I dreamed of the new summer. Future plans for her 8th birthday party in July dominated the conversation, if I remember correctly. But there were talks, I am sure, of our upcoming year in the fourth grade, memories shared of our third grade. Beneath our dirty toes and heels, sticky earthworms slinked rapidly back into the earth, bothered by our incessant, mindless digging.
Bees warned us not to disturb them with their gentle buzz as they flitted between the cream-colored puffs of clover flowers. The cicadas sang their crescendoing heat warnings, fast and furious. The dandelion tufts were scattered, painting the air with fleeting wishes and the promise of endless summer.
“Do you like butter?” Marybeth asked me, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
The morning doves cooed softly just behind us. “Of course! On warm toast, popcorn at the movies, on corn on the cob! Why, don’t you?” I replied, curious about where this was going.
“Do you know that I can prove it?” she said, a mysterious smile curling her lips. Marybeth plucked a small, greasy yellow flower. Gently holding the fine stem between her chubby fingers, she told me the tale of the buttercup, “This flower will tell me if you truly, really, and honestly like butter or if you’re a liar, liar pants on fire.”
Unsure, I cautiously lifted my chin, feeling the strands of my wrangled red hair stuck to my clammy back. My eyes tracked her hand to my face. I could no longer see the flower under my chin. But by her cunning smile, I knew Marybeth had validated the tale. She wailed, “You LIKE butter!” The strong yellow illuminated my chin, proving that I did indeed love butter.
Like any seven-and-a-half-year-old, without seeing the reflection, I couldn’t possibly believe this flower. I was most certainly tricked. “My turn,” I boldly screeched. I had to prove Marybeth’s love of butter, too. Crawling on my grimy knees through the meadow, I plucked the yellowest, freshest buttercup. Desperately, I tried my best not to squeeze the fragile flower too firmly.
Still on my knees, I propped one hand on her shoulder for balance. I was so close to Marybeth that her breath breezed my bangs aside. With great care, I slowly raised that tiny flower to her damp skin. Behold, I witnessed the golden glow of magic under her chin. Unsteadily, I leaned even closer and whispered in her ear, “Do you like butter?”
With her eyes closed as if swearing under oath in front of a judge on trial for her life, she whimpered, “Yes, best of all on my waffles.”
No longer able to sit upright with the weight of me pressing on her, Marybeth rolled over on her back, and I tumbled on top of her. Laughter erupted until the air was fully depleted from our lungs. We couldn’t possibly lie to each other. The flower knew the truth of our love.
Laura Petrovich-Cheney is an interdisciplinary visual artist and writer, who’s interest in healing through transformation, second chances, and women’s history. Her stories are about attachment, love, and loss. In her sculptures, Laura repurposes discarded materials seeking traces of personal histories, identity, and humanity.
