I found it. It was just percolating around a little before it decided to quit playing hide and seek.
The Sunflower
The skirt was lemon yellow, cinched at the waist with broad black elastic and a row of hooks and eyes. Sleeveless yellow blouse with a low scoop neck that allowed the sun to reach nearly everywhere. I needed only shoes, until I saw them. Sitting there bold and bright in the spring sunlight at the outdoor gypsy market. Bright yellow fabric with a black wooden stacked heel. They begged to be worn, to tap a dance down the streets of Cadiz in merry revelry. To follow the sun like a flower in the field. So, I did that--in Spain.
I'm still trying to think of ideas for a drabble. I think I have fewer associations for yellow than for any other major color. Not sure why.
My new favorite research link from the British library: [link]
It's basically recordings, some nearly fifty years old, of people from different parts of England talking. So now if I want to hear a character better, all I have to do is find someone from the right place and listen in.
Oh, Sail, that's a lovely piece.
Thanks, Deb. There's so much I miss about Spain. This was just one small way of expressing that.
Susan, thanks for posting that link! Now, if I could find a similar link illustrating different regional French accents, I would be a very, very happy girl indeed.
It’s just a sweater, the color of new corn or maybe the butter you might put on it. I was a very different girl when this was the sort of thing that got my attention on the rack.(I was a girl, too. Seventeen. Here in the middle of the desert we keep our sweaters for a long time.) I still love this color but have accepted that my life is never going to match it. When I was seventeen, I wasn’t ready. I just believed so much I wanted everyone’s day to be yellow and soft. This is a sweater of a girl embarrassed that she might want somebody’s tongue in her mouth. This is a sweater she could buy in the store with her dad, one of the few things he ever liked to see her in.(She pretends she never wonders what she’d look like in one of those other kinds of sweaters, now that They have finally arrived. She pretends so well she believes herself. She’s better off not being stared at, anyway. She spends so much time in her room being better off, three books is a slow week.) So, now, thirties, cleaning her closet.
”What have you got there?”
“Nothing. Just a sweater. I guess I’ll hang on to it, though.”
Oof. erika, that's got a kick like a mule. Powerful.
Huh. Thanks.(I've still got the damn sweater, too)
Thanks. Funny, though, probably the third one in which I've mentioned my late-arriving breasts. Hope y'all don't think I've got an obsession(much).
