I see pretty things. I don't mean in the other stories, where you see extra shine in a mirror that leads to Wonderland, or the tickle of a cherry blossom-scented wind that means that kind spirits are looming about. I mean what people walk past every day. The things that people miss because they're chatting in cell-phones, thinking of appointments, and trying to make it home in time to catch the big game.
And that's not their fault, that's just life! Running around and trying to keep up with everyone around you, and some trying to get ahead, even. And that's okay.
I love the cracks in the sidewalks. The lilt in people's voices as they talk to one another, even just a polite greeting on the streets. I like the sound of old, musty autumn leaves that are still blowing around on a summer breeze, scraping against the ground. I like the sound of my own breathing when I'm alone. The artificial tin of music floating through the cheap speakers of an iPhone. The laugh of someone you love, even if it's fake.
I love all those things. They're the makings of fine months and years. Of fine lives. The green grass that's on the other side. But one of my favorite little things that people don't notice are dandelions.
Do you not recognize the name? It's okay if you don't, some people just don't know. They're the little yellow flowers sprouting up in the grass. The tough-as-nails flowers that can find a home in cracked dirt and splits in pavement. The complaints on people's breaths during the warm months. The seeds dancing in late summer air.
They're everywhere. I can appreciate their beauty, even if other's don't get it. Many people call them weeds. Sprouting up everywhere, despite the fact that they're actually wildflowers. Few people know that, so I take the liberty of telling them. They usually shrug it off, preferring to stick to their own rancid opinions because it's easier than considering a new one.
I once asked my mother why everyone hated them so much. She said because they were everywhere. I pointed out the fact that they were actually wildflowers, and inquired why people thought they were weeds.
"Because that's how we think of them around here."
How human of us to go around with what other people are saying without any consideration. Without any appreciation! Without considering that to the wise consumer, they can yield dyes and paints, teas and salads, nourishment in a dying world.
It's not that I'm all that passionate about dandelions, either. It's the symbolism behind the universal hate, I'd guess. That just because there are a lot that they're not worth anything. That we spray them out of our flower beds with foreign chemicals because we didn't put them there in the first place. If there were only a few in the world, they'd be coveted. Treasured for their bright yellowed blooms and bubbles of pollen. Treasured then as I treasure them now.
But for now, I pick my dandelions, and tell my friends that they're actually wildflowers, and ignore as they shrug it off and stick to their own, rancid opinions.
Because, in a way, they're all dandelions themselves.