There She Blows
Georgene Smith Goodin
When dandelions go to seed, they look like full moons. Like planets. An entire galaxy dots your yard, begging to be explored.
You blow on one, wishing you could travel in space. You wish for a puppy, and that Jimmy Balducci would change schools.
Your father wishes for no more dandelions and throws the stem you offer in the trash. He hates those golden suns blanketing the lawn.
Now that you have your own home, you attack those pesky globes with a fishtail weeder. For each one you get rid of, your daughter blows another.
In her face, you see your own.
You wonder if she wished for a pony, or something more exotic. Perhaps she wants a magic carpet ride through cloud-streaked skies. Or to be an archaeologist when she grows up.
You take the stem she offers and blow.
You wish your father could see you now.