Roses for Emma
My first bouquet of flowers was an arrangement of pink blooms. As we filed off the stage, all six of us five-year olds, dressed in our pink tutus, our faces flushed from the stage lighting, I spotted my mother in the crowd.
“Mommy!” I whispered, as loudly as I dared, wiggling my fingers in a wave. She smiled, proudly. I could see her pointing me out to her friends. Even now, I can still hear her voice, “That’s my Emma!” I was Mom’s little star.
Our parents came backstage, hugging and smiling as we traded ballet slippers for sneakers and street clothes.
“What’s that?” I asked, trying to peek closer at something Mom was holding. She laid in my arms that bunch of flowers. I felt so grown up, like a real ballerina, holding those flowers. It was the best feeling I have ever experienced.
I have been in many ballet recitals since then, and received many more flowers. But no bouquet ever meant so much to me as those pink flowers—representing everything I had worked for and everything I wished I could be.