Saturday, day 14: Dandelions
On the day before my father was forced to leave his home because of foreclosure, he picked as many dandelions as he could. He boiled and froze the stems in plastic bags of promise: he had owned three acres once. Foreclosure could not un-tell that story. He had these weeds and would never go hungry. He knew how to live off the land.
After my grandmother's burial, my mother picked dandelions out of the ground and tossed them onto her mother's newly covered grave.
The least desired flower. The yellow pest. The edible stem. The deep, unremovable root. The sun-yellow face. The wispy, white seed. The nesting, and growing, and blowing, and seeding again.
How all that is beautiful and seemingly useless spreads by rooting itself in the midst of what is most valuable.
Dandelion: unlikely Easter flower.
After my grandmother's burial, my mother picked dandelions out of the ground and tossed them onto her mother's newly covered grave.
The least desired flower. The yellow pest. The edible stem. The deep, unremovable root. The sun-yellow face. The wispy, white seed. The nesting, and growing, and blowing, and seeding again.
How all that is beautiful and seemingly useless spreads by rooting itself in the midst of what is most valuable.
Dandelion: unlikely Easter flower.
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