two little girls picking dandelions. how long ago was that me?
child's hands clutching a bouquet of brilliant yellow, sometimes mixed with delicate purple violets, clover blossoms, and the queen anne's lace that grew along the cow path. presented so sincerely to mama. into a tiny glass they would go- already drooping, heads snapped by my clumsy, eager fingers. but mama never seemed to mind.
why did we used to rub the fuzzy soft dandelion flowers underneath our chins and along our arms and legs, the petals streaking stains across in our suntanned skin? how can i not remember the reason, when so much time was spent doing nothing else? maybe there was no reason. Maybe that is what i need to remember.
i mourned those dandelions when the merciless lawn mower blades swept across them, leaving only stems behind, the flowers now scattered on the sidewalk or overturned and hidden in the freshly-cut grass. my father called them weeds (one piece of his cynicism i never have absorbed). but, without them, the yard looked less alive to me.
my father preferred the marigolds, which i didn't understand. to me they were dull and smelly and, most importantly, utterly forbidden. the first time i added marigolds to mama's bouquet was the last. i was a fast learner.
but the question i asked myself then still remains-- of what use is a flower that you cannot touch?
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