The dress was a pastel green color, yet, sublimely dark as it flowed around her strangely small body; catching the vacant stares of strangers in an unfamiliar park. Her blonde crown fell short, ending in a pageboy, nest of hair due to extensive treatment. She gradually looped around trees and handed strangers dull dandelions as she passed them, smiling gleefully and wishing them a good morning—even though it was past noon. Some greeted her with a hesitant smile, while others hushed their children before they said harsher words than they should know at their age. Yet, my daughter kept turning, greeting, and smiling; while I trailed slowly behind with an oxygen tank that was the size of a giant compared to her small form-- trying to hide my tears behind the first and brightest dandelion she had picked.
She slowed down as we came to a tree, our tree, more specifically: an oak tree. But, she didn’t slow down because we had arrived, more so because her lungs would not allow her to twirl and skip as she craved. “Daddy,” her voice was strained from the journey to our tree, so I picked her up and carried her. “When I’m a ballerina, how many dandelions will you bring me?”
“None. I’d bring you a dozen—no two-- dozen roses.” I looked at her and then away; the cannula drizzled oxygen into her petite nose, combined with the weight of the tank… it was too much for my heart to bear.
“But I love dandelions!” she stopped and gazed at me with drained hazel eyes. “Mommy loved them too…”
“Marcie,” my voice cracked. “Those are weeds... My princess deserves the best Daddy can provide her.” I looked up at the sky, swallowing hard, as if telling the tears to wander their way back into my tear ducts, and off my face. I sat her down carefully on the ground, and then took my place next to her.
“Daddy,” she pouted, puffing her cheeks out and scrunching her nose; breathing in deeply to take in all the oxygen she could. Even though I wanted to yell and curse at the sky, my baby girl brought a smile to my face; a smile choked with emotion, but a smile nonetheless. “How long will it be until I become a ballerina?” she wondered aloud, her eyes set on something far in the distance, her cheeks dusted with light shades of yellow from her flowers.
“Not very long,” I kissed her forehead, and hugged her for what seemed like an eternity. This is what our time at the tree consists of: she asks me questions about her dream of being a ballerina, while I assure her it won’t be long until she’s on the stage herself, in a pink tutu and ballet slippers. What Marcie doesn't realize is that not only does this tree hold her aspirations, but also the confirmed nightmares of losing my baby girl before her eighth birthday.