dandelions for the girl at the corner store
Ever seen a dandelion in December— like late-stage, winter has sunk its teeth into the pavement and left cracks behind, the trees are in mourning December— peeking up from a fracture in the sidewalk like it’s always been there and will never leave? Loose cobblestones, irksome weeds, and one lovely dandelion peering up through half a head of hazy fluff. It’s below freezing, and that green stem hasn’t bent under the bellowing wind. It’s sort of brilliant and magical, just a single tuft of something that doesn’t belong. The sidewalks are grey, the bench by the closed-up ice cream shop is on its last leg, and yet, a dandelion grows on nothing but fierce determination and a hour of sunlight a day. It’s remarkable, like a tourist shop open in the off season. It’s a stroke of luck, something like finding a shiny four leaf clover in a field of dull grass. It’s enough to make you stop and question its existence. It’s enough to forget about deadlines, the daily commute, the laundry list of worries in your back pocket. It’s only a dandelion, and she’s only the girl at the corner store.