Tradition suggests that if one blows a dandelion’s seeds with one breath, a wish will be granted.
I have a wish, but with just days left until Christmas, dandelions are not in season.
They are dormant.
Like me.
Normal life – delighting in her conversation, companionship in going absolutely wherever didn’t matter as long as we were together, doing dishes, pre-dishwasher, where she washed and I dried, and on, and on, fifty years of on – all and so, so much more are now no longer possible.
When dandelions go dormant, they so… slow… down as if cast into a deep sleep. But deep, deep down in the soil the dandelion central taproot goes, deeper, ever deeper, seeking nutrients and water. The older a dandelion is, the longer its tap root and harder it is to remove.
Dandelions are perennials. They’ll be back.
I’m older.
I’m going deeper.
I won’t be removed, and I’ll be back.
And as with the dandelion when it makes its debut in the spring, and eventually blossoms, like the seeds that then will be sent for miles and miles, I will write, and write, and write, because I am heartsick, and because I have something to say about how great a love can be that no longer is.
It’s a story of joy and heartbreak.
It’s a what-it-once-was, and wish-it-could-be-otherwise story.
Perhaps it’ll be a story to be shared, and widely spread, for miles and miles.
