Such a thoughtful peace. Check it out.
They come in with fistfuls, crushed, warm and wilted in their palms. Dirt under their fingernails, smudged on their cheeks, they each come forth and bring me the soft, yellow riches of their dandelion harvest, the first for this year with it’s late birthing spring.
The broken mess of petals and dandelion heads have been carefully distributed among the cups and mason jars that Asher could find in my dishwasher.
He, they, save them, because they are beauty and spring and magic all at once. They are sagging stems and mushed petals that somehow, in a way that they can’t fully understand, have the power to make their mother smile.
They don’t realize that the smile is in the gifting, not the gift. It’s in their soft, open hearts, not what they carry in their palms. It’s, simply, them.
I don’t even particularly like dandelions, not yet anyway. Here in my house, I…
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