Flamingos. Reminiscent kitsch of days gone by. Yet, our fascination continues with them. I see a Flamingo and I time travel to Palm Springs and Miami in the fifties. Perhaps I like them due to my weakness for the color pink. Perhaps I like them simply because they are elegant and unique. Tall, thin and pretty.
If I lived in a tropical region, I would inevitably own a Flamingo farm. I have no doubt. They would wander freely about, exuding their finesse gently and quietly as they do. Truth is, I don't know the first thing about the nature of a Flamingo. What they eat. What they do for fun.
The Flamingos I have met in my life have been made of porcelain and plastic. They have greeted me at my Grandma's house, both indoors and out. They have watched me pass by from a neighbor's lawn. At times posing towards me. Other times staring off into a different direction.
My reaction has always been the same. I acknowledge their presence, smile at their beauty and continue on my way with a desire to pin curl my hair.
I do not own any figurines remotely Flamingo related. I am afraid that if I start with one, I will end up surrounded by them in every corner of my life. Probably the reason I do not live in the tropics. Or, maybe the only reason I have a pressing urge to relocate to Florida someday.
And, if I do wind up there one day, a pair of Flamingo's of my very own will adorn the lawn. Forging a lasting impression on the countless children who will notice them, the same way I did....