The dandelion stem is long
too long for it to stand so straight
but the tall grass props it up
so that she can still see the yellow
and it makes her heart cheer
even though her voice is quiet
She hasn't come out to see the yellow
for a long time now
with the others so loud and obnoxious
and cruel
She stays by the school doors instead
knowing where it's safest
But this time the teacher is standing there
arms folded across her body and she's told to
go!
play!
play with the other
children!
So she leaves and walks around the corner
where the teacher can't see her and
she crouches down
her body like sand falling into the
grass
and that's where she can reach it
The yellow of the petals is so bright
and perfect
and the stem is hollow and squishes
between her fingertips
She pulls it and then feels immediate remorse
for not letting it grow
But the yellow is too alluring and so she
relaxes, her back against the scratchy school
and she stares at this thing in her hands
this weed that nobody likes
except maybe her mother
when she's given a bouquet
The school bell is ringing and it's
right above her head
the whole side of the school shakes with
the noise
She sees the children running and she pushes
herself up out of the grass
Most of the children are already inside and
the teacher's arms are still folded and so
she walks quicker
the yellow dandelion still in her right hand
but she knows it will be taken so she folds it over
and puts in her pocket
When the clock finally changes to home-time
and the children have exhausted their ideas for
hurting
she steps off the school bus and
her hand plunges into her pocket and finds
the dandelion
But it's different now
smaller and curled over and not so yellow
and not so bright
and the stem is broken and
the girls cries
and cradles it between her small fingers
If only dances in her mind as she walks
and she can feel the gravel through the thin soles
of her holey runners
If only things were different and flowers could live
and not die or blow away or get
mowed by machines
She drops the dandelion on the gravel and stares
at it, curled over and
wrinkled
and she thinks she can hear it
crying out to her
but she can't quite understand
She picks it up then
afraid to leave it behind on the driveway
a car to run it over
or an animal to eat it
or the wind to blow it into
the water to sink
There's a small cup beside the front step
full of dirt and pebbles that she has collected
and so she lays the dandelion on top of it all, curled around like a snail
The yellow is brighter against the soft stones
and that's when she knows it
was never a weed
© 2022 Shirley Hay