Flying

Wearing her tights, shiny patent leather boots, and onezie all organized in a flat black hue, with left leg turned in just a little, Olympia races down the long hall of our local YMCA. Its Halloween and Olympia is a monarch butterfly. As she turns towards you, you notice the hand-stitched butterfly cutout on her chest, orange and yellow patterns swirling and bringing you to her squishy quilted wings, attached by Velcro straps. She keeps tugging at her black antennae but stops when another trick-or-treaater or guardian notices her. She is eager to wave and “make friends.” While smiling at an older girl in a princess costume, I notice how Olympia’s blonde thin mop and ivory skin glows against this sexy and cute Halloween “get-up” for a one-year-old.

Her nose is running, and I wipe with every turn of her head. She runs across the chaotic gymnasium of screaming kids, of fake witches and white sheets. I chase her through the madness to which she slows for nothing but the little red toddler car. She trips lifting her big feet in – she’s been walking for over three months now but still so easily toppled over.

I push her in the little car. She waves to Grammie, Grandpa & Dada. I worry about her running nose, being too tired, and getting worn out. Worrying doesn’t do you any good, I know. I used to worry, now, not so much. I look ahead. I look at my daughter wearing the black suit waving and smiling at the craziness in this world. I want to be a butterfly too.