Hope Girl by Wendy Dunham Page B

strong, the flower is as fragile as life. On a tender stem, hang delicate, white, bell-shaped flowers. Not only do I love the flower’s sweet fragrance, I lovethe meaning it carries. The lily of the valley is often referred to as the return of happiness. It means “you’ve made my life complete.”
    This month may you enjoy the sweet fragrance of the lily of the valley, discover the return of happiness, and know, like me, your life is complete.
    I hold her column close to my heart. “See, Mom? We were complete. You just need to remember.”
    I find a pen and piece of paper.
    Dear Mom,
    I’m so glad I met you. I’m sorry you don’t remember me, but I know you will. It must be hard for you. I’ll pray every day that God helps you remember.
    Dad gave me one of your old garden bench columns. It’s from May of 1971. You wrote about the lily of the valley. Do you remember? You said your life was complete—with you, Dad, and me. I was eight months old then.
    Mom, please remember the lily of the valley and what it means. I want to know you more than anything. You alreadyremembered something special about Dad, so I know you’ll remember everything else too.
    Love your daughter,
    River
    I write Mom’s address on the envelope and grab twenty cents for a stamp. It won’t be long ’til we’re complete again—Dad, Mom, and me.
    I stop by the post office on my way to the studio.

    Dad’s on a ladder painting. “There you are,” he says. “Ready to paint?”
    I look at the color he picked and scrunch my nose.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” he asks.
    â€œI would’ve picked a more cheerful color. Don’t you want people smiling when you take their picture?”
    Dad laughs. “Maybe you’ll need to make them smile.”
    â€œCome on, Dad. Why didn’t you pick a happy color like yellow? Anything would be better than gray.”
    â€œTell you what,” he says, “since I picked the studio color, you pick for the office and kitchen. And by the way, gray’s a fantastic color for the studio—it has to do with the lighting.”
    â€œWhatever you say, Dad.” He shows me how to use the paint roller. It’s easy. Dip the roller in paint, then move it up and down along the wall. And since the studio’s small, we finish before noon.

    Dad takes me to Chick-a-Dee’s Diner again for lunch. He dips the last onion ring in ketchup. “I haven’t had a chance to ask,” he says, “what do you think of Carlos?”
    â€œHe’s real nice,” I say, then suck the last bit of chocolate shake through my straw (not realizing the noise ’til Dad looks at me with raised eyebrows). “And he knows a lot about butterflies.”
    Dad laughs. “Butterfly knowledge is a plus.” He fiddles with his napkin. “Sounds like he’s been through a lot.”
    â€œHe actually hasn’t said anything, but Rosa told me a little.”
    Dad picks the bill up off our table. “I’m sure he’ll share more when he’s ready.”
    Talking about Carlos gives me an idea. “Dad, do you think he’d like to paint with us?”
    â€œYou know, Rosa mentioned he’s been bored and hasn’t made many friends, so maybe he would.”
    â€œCan we ask?”
    Dad checks his watch. “Rosa’s working, but we could swing by their place on the way to buy paint.”
    â€œHow do you know where they live?”
    I could be wrong, but Dad looks almost embarrassed. “Oh,” he says, “I stopped over once to help move their refrigerator.”
    That’s strange, since Gram and I moved our refrigerator alone before. But Carlos probably can’t move big things like refrigerators, so I guess it makes sense.
    Dad pays our bill and we leave.

20

    A Butterfly in the House
    D ad drives down Main Street, then turns right after getting off Meadowlark