blossom

We're three lines in to the conversation when I realize what she's saying. This is not, as it happens, a rarity, and not only because I'm slow on the uptake: spend enough time talking to the not-quite-proficient and you, too, will someday find yourself two nods and an "uh huh" in before it becomes clear that the Target bag stashed on top of the back book shelf is not full of supplies for her speech but instead a gift. 


"Is it for me?" I ask, certain, almost, of the answer. 


She nods twice, quickly, eyes dancing: "My brother and I made it last night." 


Our smiles reflect each other as I thank her sincerely and mouth, "I love it," because I do.  It is the best of all possible gifts; if it weren't mine, I'd envy the owner, but it is, and I am so pleased.  I love it because she made it, because she's excited to give it to me, and because it's beautiful. And I love what this winter branch adorned with dozens of red paper flowers represents. 


When the time comes, once lunch is past and we've learned both how to juggle and how to bathe a baby, I move my new bouquet to the table up front, and without bidding she approaches to make her first-ever presentation as an English-speaking student, a demonstration of the paper folding she learned as a girl in Vietnam. She is ready, having practiced, having followed all instructions, but I cannot overstate the resolve it took for her to ignore her palpitations and stand before her classmates and speak loud enough and clear, but today she did it. Today, she bloomed.