Center Of Attention

You walk along rows of yellow tulips, not particularly seeking anything, just letting your eyes wander. The flowers quiver gently as the wind ripples through, now leaning towards you, now leaning away. At some point, the view starts vibrating. There’s so much of the same color, the same shape, that you start to stop noticing details. And yet, something keeps causing you to look.

And then, quite unexpectedly, you see it — a small glimpse of red in all the yellows. It is simple to confuse, especially when the flowers are blown around by the wind. One moment it is visible, and the next it has disappeared. You stand still, not pushing it, but waiting to see if it will show up again. It does, disappearing and back in sight, the kind of thing you have to be holding out for. It's quiet, not showy, but it catches your eye without trying to.

You edge forward, not wanting to disturb anything. The yellow at the red tulip appears to fade, all but disappearing into the background. The red is stable, not as something that demands attention, but as something that you can't help but pay attention to when you do notice it. The moment is tender, as though it would break if you rushed, so you just stand there. You allow the wind to blow by, you allow the flowers to fade, and you stay with it for as long as it remains intact.

Later, when you depart, it's that moment you remember — not the whole field, not the apparently endless yellow, but the flash of red you clung to. It's strange the way the small things linger. Maybe that's the part that matters, not the big picture, but the small area where everything converges in one moment before leaving again.