The Dandelion House

Dandelions are a child's first flower; abundant, brilliant, sunshine sprouting past the earth. "You can't catch me, you can't catch me," they chant in unison like the children who pick them one by one. Dandelions make up a mother's first spring bouquet, as both mother and child delight in the wonder of God's creation and 1st love. "Mommy, this is for you." 

As the years go by and the heads of dandelion's get popped off in childhood rituals that mimic maternity and childbirth, somewhere in the midst of all the magic, the secret is shared. But not in a whisper, like any respectable secret is told, no nothing hushed or considerate about its spread. "Stop picking those things, they're weeds." Weeds? Now, they no longer convey sunshine, spring or new births. The white wispy wishes so fun to blow through the air have turned into poisoned truths. 

But how do you tell a dandelion; a little black girl birthed special by Mother Earth herself to stop emerging, stop dancing with breezy blue skies, stop being easy on sunny summer days. Quit playing, laughing, enjoying life, you ugly; a weed, unwanted with poisoned seed. Naw, the dandelion just gonna keep growing until you forced to pick it up and see the butter reflected on your chin. 

I know firsthand bout sadness. In fact me and sadness take long walks together arm and arm down winding paths through nature's ravines. When we have to be a part for more than a week or two, we write five page long love letters, the kind schoolgirl's put harts on to make schoolboy's blush. All written out on hand-painted stationery with endless green meadows; sans the dandelions, chirping birds make a fit replacement. Yes, the birds sing each lyric painstakingly composed to convey - sadness and I will never part. 

I'm sure we just close friends and not real lovers. We got separate rooms, although whenever she can't sleep, she come to my room and keep me up as long as she please, rustling around and stealing the covers, a few times up all night with tears streaming down her face. I do my best to comfort her, but really, I wish she'd just go back to her own room and leave me be. We break up every so often. I think the longest she staid gone was six months. 

"Did you miss me?" is always her first words clamoring through the door, out of breath and perspiring like she traveled land and sea to get back to me. I just pretend I don't see, hear or even know she back - go on bout my business. But I guess in a way I do miss her. She real familiar like, and I ain't made room for nothing/nobody else.

I would like to marry an artist; a painter to be precise. Someone who specializes in abstract works but performs a miraculous feat in realism - at least once a year. So I can be secure in the fact that his genius is genius. Okay, I know this is asking a lot, but someone who is appreciated, celebrated, compensated while living. 

I would be his wife. Conservative in comparison - his eccentricity would over shadow my quirks. I'd be safe and keep him covered. He wouldn't ask much of me at all because the magic would reside inside his head and be interpreted through his hands. Whenever he comes out to inhale something other than paint fumes, I'd be the first one he'd see applauding his brilliance, framing and hanging his masterpieces for all to admire. He would never witness the price tags and sold stickers I brandish with delight while he's abracadabra-ing our existence. Only I would never sell the ones of me, the miraculous feats in realism. 

He lives in his head, and I live just outside in an art gallery of historic proportions; big and modern, some fancy architectural creation. We got loyal people too, staff - folk to cook, keep the children, keep us safe from intruders, maids. Only we can't seem to keep a gardener. They get so mad at all the weeds on the property; say it reflects badly on their craft, like they an artist or something too. But my husband love him some dandelions; say they his muse.