Pollen stain on my thumb and fingers from the lilies in the bathroom. Somewhere there's a shirt with a smear of orange across the middle from carrying the flowers, some already in full bloom, from the car to the front porch. A gift of sorts from a sick friend who is allergic to them. What a shock to look down and suddenly see myself dirtied in such a vibrant way. When I worked at a restaurant in New York City, the manager was always plucking at the fuzzy tassles of pollen around the sappy stamen. It was a fancy restaurant, Midtown, clientele in fancy dresses and white collared shirts. We don't want the dry cleaning bill for that!The deep yellow on my hands reminds me of the mustard stains I used to get at lunch in school and didn't notice till I was in fourth or fifth period, bored, distracted, Oh, a mustard stain! I would suck at the webbing between thumb and forefinger for that salty, vinegary treat. Was it a treat? Not really; just something to do instead of learn what Sam Houston did on his big white steed.
