Dandelions

The dust grows bright life, more than a hundred petals of pure sunlight growing from a pure cylindrical stem. The stem is cool and soft, like the fingers of the child holding them. I pet the head of the bloom like a doll until the petals fall off in my hands, staining them with sunshine. The stem bleeds a milky froth in the strength of my affection until all that remains is a bald skeleton of greenery. I pick a whole bouquet of this abundant yellow and, with eyes as bright and glowing, I present them to my mother. She cherishes them as I do in a tiny glass vase in the kitchen window sill. Those I leave to grow in the sun become wishes, soft, white, flighty wishes. My sisters and I breath life into those wishes, hoping to make those dry bones walk, to make the immaterial material. I pray heavy prayers on those feathery wishes, and with hope I watch them take flight. I wish for what my mother has: an early marriage, at least five children, and a backyard full of wishes. But our wishes don't come true. I blame it on the stubborn strands of white magic refusing to set free the spell, still suspended on the stem. But they were just weeds, or so I learn later.

Later, I gaze out the window, watching lawn mowers crush what I once called wishes. I wonder how I learned wishes were weeds, or who told me flowers alone were to be desired.  Despite all this, I smile at the resiliency of a wish and though I learned long ago that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, I still wonder, "What of weeds?"