BIBEAU IN THE BUTTERCUPS
No one believes Old Bibeau's story of being in buttercups up to his knees. No one thinks to imagine Old Bibeau as bébé Bibeau, just learning to walk, allowed to wander off the picnic blanket and onto the lawn, the first warm day of spring, buttercups brushing chubby legs, “a t’ounsand buttercup,” chants Old Bibeau long after everyone has stopped listening. It’s true the idea of “thousands” is an overlay of memories, decades of that corner of the yard untouched by blade, left to become meadow. But you doubt Old Bibeau at your peril, your own imagination revealing itself as some withered unloved winter thing.