At noon, I would race breathlessly home, a tenminute walk from my school. My mother was waiting for me with pleasure to have lunch while I shared what happened at school.
I had been picked to be the princess in the school play, and for weeks my mother had rehearsed my lines so hard with me. But no matter how easily I acted at home, hardly had I stepped on stage when every word escaped me. Finally, my teacher asked me to change to a narrator's part. Her word, kindly expressed, still hurt, especially when I saw my part go to another girl.
I didn't tell my mother what had happened that day. But she sensed my pain. Instead of suggesting we practice my lines, she asked if I wanted to walk in the yard.
Under the rose vine, we could see yellow dandelions (蒲公英), as if a painter had touched our landscape with shades of gold. I watched my mother casually bend down by one dandelion. "I'm going to dig up all these weeds, " she said, pulling it up by its roots. "From now on, we'll have only roses in this garden."
"But I like dandelions" I argued. "All flowers are beautiful — even dandelions."
My mother asked thoughtfully, "Yes, every flower gives pleasure in its own way, doesn't it?" I nodded, pleased I had won her over. "And that is true of people too, " she added. I burst into tears, a mixture of relief and regret swelling up as I told her what had happened.
"But you will be a beautiful narrator, " she said, encouraging me as she did. "The narrator's part is important, too." Composing myself gradually, I began to accept the narrator's part. Then came the performance day. I was still nervous, but it was at that very moment that I found a dandelion in my pocket. It was obvious that my mom secretly put the flower there, which magically gave me confidence.