The Wish

Deep in my roots I am unsettled. A yearning rises in my heart. It haunts me when I curl into sleep at night. I wake to every new day with expectation. No revelation comes. I resign myself to duty as another summer beckons. I commit to the repetition: pollenate and propagate; pollenate and propagate.  

You could say I am common, but that would be an understatement. I am one in thousands. I look around and see yellow lion-heads craning their milky necks above the field grass toward the sun. Resourceful and tenacious, we feed the pollinators before the desirable ones open for business.  

Humans adore the sprightly butterflies and the iridescent little hummingbirds who flit from flower to flower, spreading the sticky powder. We’ve always partnered with the bees. They get us. We’re working class.   

I’m told we are the lucky ones. Our neglected field fears no ambush of an acrid-smelling petroleum-fueled spinning blade. We’ve never felt the searing pain inflicted by the spume of herbicide and the slow wilting of the soul that follows. We thrive year after year, spreading our snaggletooth leaves, forming a pappus of seeds on hollow stalks. 

No one remembers our vast healing benefits. Rumors of our culinary gifts sift through the grass prompting the social climbers to rise above their station, joining endive or spinach on human salads. Legend has it that a top few fermented into wine. They attend special occasions as featured celebrants, forever shedding their former reputation. I’ve no desire for an elite life. My calling will be humble. 

Late May arrives and I transform into a ghostly sphere of 100 tiny seeds, each fitted with a white feather. I raise my puffball high, loosening each tiny parachute, waiting for gusty wind to disperse my seeds and replicate the cycle.  

A mechanical hum resounds and the scent of fresh-cut grass swirls among us. Agitated bees hop from blossom to blossom in alarm. I notice all the heads, yellow and white, turn slowly toward the unnatural racket. Our luck has run out. Humans.  

I brace myself for a harsh beheading, vowing to save my roots and sprout again tomorrow. Instead, a soft vibration ripples the ground. Two rainbow clad feet toddle near, the appendages straddle me. A small human. I feel the tender clasp of fingers on my stem. 

Snap! I’m lifted above the field, liberated from roots and leaves. My heart soars with an endless view of flora. Suddenly, a burst of cherry-scented breath jostles me. My head explodes. Tufts expel in every direction. Magic transcends time.  

I’ve granted a wish! My soul swells with joy.  

Call me a weed or a pest. Labels mean nothing to me now. I know the meaning of my life. I must tell my dandelion sisters. We all have the power to bestow wishes.