dandelions

short short story

 

dandelions

 

Somewhere. Along the line. Someone stomped the dandelions. Broke them to bits. Ground them to pieces. And now she is convinced that we do not need them.

 

I watch. Through the kitchen window. And I wonder how she got here. With me. Wanting to love so much. But needing so much to destroy.

 

She insists on spraying weed killer. Running the lawnmower. Wielding the hoe. To do away with the little bright bursts of sunshine so they will not grow.

 

Because Daddy didn’t like them.

 

Because Mommy used to sneeze.

 

Because when she was little she picked the yellow flower and was stung by a bee.  

 

Or maybe it’s because the newness of us is wearing off. And living with a creative, thinking type is not at all as she thought it would be. And that my nights of writing and her nights of reading magazines and watching TV have her filled up with commercials and notions and wishing that she had a yard that was perfectly green. With a perfect white picket fence. And a perfect house. And a perfect husband. That could give her perfect children. Instead of these imperfect words that make it so hard to understand. Be faithful. And believe that what we have is meant to last. To carry on. To be.

 

Like the dandelions. In our yard. Popping up and multiplying. Despite her efforts to kill them. Because they are something we need.

 

(copyright 2007 by k.j. stevens)