I was about her age when I read it for the first time, The Great Gatsby. The green light that I sought was never about the opulence of wealth and fame, but I had one. Pick any one of the 10,000 lakes in Minnesota where I grew up, and I could see it dock dancing. It was my love of words. Paint. Creativity. Expression of any kind, reflecting Gatsby Green in my eyes and heart. I follow it still.

At first glance, looking up at her from the Mediterranean, I’m sure they think she has everything. That she is shining green. And yes, she lives in a beautiful home. The right cars and clothing. Even her hair looks expensive. But I have the privilege of seeing her up close, in home and heart. Her newly teened soul is looking. She paints in those perfect dresses. She bakes and cradles the cat. She takes the summer course of theatre and dares to dream of the stage – that one day it will be her script, loud and clear and glowing green.

When I invite her out on the balcony, (the only gift I have to give really), I don’t need to tell her to assume the pose. She is living it. Looking outward. Onward. Not reveling in what she has, what the others see, but looking for her own light. And what a thing to behold! — all these words from the page coming to life, right there in front of me, shining so possible — Margaux, on the balcony in Marseille.