14 Sep A Kind of Grief and a Kind of Hope
Ella ran toward the grass and reached down to pluck a dandelion from the ground. She went this way and that, gathering a little bouquet of bright yellow flowers and white dandelion puffs, carrying the bouquet carefully to keep the fragile puffs from falling off.
“I like the variety,” I said.
“They are the same,” Ella corrected. “The yellow flower and the puff are both dandelions, you know,” she said.
I didn’t know. And my lack of knowing must have been obvious, because Ella explained: “This is the yellow dandelion that provides nectar for the bees,” she said, pointing to the little golden flower. “Then the yellow flowers dry out and in a little while, it opens again into this fluffy white poof. If it is still planted in the ground, it will bloom into a flower again. Over and over.”
Ella blew the seeds into the gentle breeze.
I watched as the seeds moved through the air. They looked like little white parachutes filling the sky. The seeds floated farther from us until they grew tiny and eventually disappeared out of sight.
I looked at the bouquet in her hands – yellow flowers next to empty stems.
Things fall apart to start again.
Things fall apart and start again.
The flowers that bloom tomorrow are a kind of grief.
And a kind of hope.