The Dandelion People

Most of the adults in the countryside of Breton County knew who the dandelion people were. One man might say to the other,

“I’m off to see the dandelion people.”

Then his friend would laugh and with a wink reply,

“Looks like I’ll be stopping by your place sometime this week.”

What made the children of Breton County especially curious was that, when asked, the adults would uncomfortably shift their eyes and say that there was no such thing as dandelion people.

“I think that they are fairies that grant wishes,” said MaryLou, twirling a blonde pigtail around her finger.

“Nah, I bet they are just old people with fluffy white hair,” said Jonathan from his seat on a white pasture fence.

“I heard that they come out to the fields at night and pick all the dandelions. They comb all the fields of the county till there is not one left.” said Velma, who had an older sister that was twenty-one and knew everything.

“Really?” gasped MaryLou, “Have you seen them?”

“No, but my sister has,” Velma said smugly, “She went with them once.”

“No way,” said Jonathan, his mouth hanging open showing a missing tooth.

“Yes,” Velma looked him up and down, “She did.”

“What did they look like?” asked MaryLou practically bouncing up and down, “Were they fairies or elves or gnomes?”

Velma looked at her brown leather shoes now coated in reddish dust from the road. “I don’t know. My sister didn’t tell me much.”

“Oh,” sighed Jonathan and MaryLou in unison. Velma bit her lip and her eyes darted between the pair of them.

“I think we should see the dandelion people for ourselves.”
“What?” spluttered Jonathan.

“Really? How?” asked MaryLou.

“Simple,” said Velma shrugging her shoulders, “Mr. Parkins’ field is full of dandelions. If we wait the dandelion people will come eventually.”

“Alright,” said MaryLou smiling as wide as the sun, stretching the freckles across her nose. Jonathan nodded in agreement. Velma dropped her voice and leaned in close to them.
“Good we’ll do it tonight.”

They met again when the air turned cool and laid down in the grass of Mr. Parkins’ field on their bellies like snakes. Dandelions dotted the fields like thousands of little burned out suns and made the spring air smell sticky and sweet.
“When do you think they’ll come?” whispered Jonathan in the dark.

“No telling,” Velma answered, “we’ll wait here as long as we have to, even until the sun comes up.”

“I’d wait here for days if I had to,” said MaryLou taking off her shoes, clenching tufts of grass between her toes and plucking them from the ground. “If my parents knew what we were doing, boy, I’d be in trouble.”

“What did you tell them when you left your house tonight?”
“I said I was spending the night at your house, Velma.”

“And I said I was sleeping at your place.” The girls giggled.

“What about you, Jonathan? What did you tell your parents?” asked MaryLou.

“I didn’t tell them anything,” Jonathan lay his chin on his arms peering through the forest of grass.

“Really? They didn’t bother you about where you’d be?” said Velma.

“No,” muttered Jonathan as he rolled over on his back.

“Hey, Jonathan,” said MaryLou a little timidly, “You haven’t been back to school for a while.”
“Nope.”

“…It’s been a long time.” MaryLou turned on her side and propped herself up on her elbow.

“Yep.”

“Are you ever gonna come back?”
“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t wanna,” sighed Jonathan as he reached out his arm and plucked a dandelion.
“Then what do you do all day?” asked Velma rolling her eyes in the dark.

“Depends, sometimes I swim in the river, sometimes I climb trees, sometimes I pick wild berries.”

“That’s stupid,” spat Velma, “you can’t live that way.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“I don’t care what you say, Velma. I can do with my life whatever I want.”

“You want to run around barefoot with holes in your clothes? “

“I don’t like school.”

“Well, you’re going to grow up and be a bum then.” Jonathan rolled over on his side facing away from the girls and didn’t speak for a long time.

“I think you made him mad,” whispered MaryLou.

“Well someone’s got to tell him the truth. His parents don’t do much.” Velma raised her voice a little so Jonathan would hear, “They don’t even care.” Everyone was silent until the moon rose high overhead, full like a shiny dime.

“Do you think they’ll ever come?” said MaryLou sleepily.

“I hope so,” Velma stifled a yawn. Jonathan was still curled up on his side.

“Velma, if we ever see the dandelion people, what would you wish for?”

“I’d wish for a new dress, bright red with a big bow on the collar.”

“I’d wish for a new deck of cards. Mine is missing two kings,” laughed MaryLou. “What would you wish for Jonathan?” He rolled over on his back again.

“I don’t think I should say.”

“Why not?” asked Velma sharply.

“I think if you say your wishes out loud, then they don’t come true. Mine’s a really big one so I’d like to keep it to myself.”

MaryLou suddenly sat bolt upright, looking over the field like a deer that hears a hunter’s steps in the woods. Shadowy figures appeared in the distance at the rim of the field like inkblots. She immediately sunk back in the grass with a squeak.
“They’re here!”

The shadows roved over the field stooping to pluck the yellow weeds from the ground.
“There’s got to be at least twenty of them,” whispered Velma.

“They don’t look like fairies,” said MaryLou sounding very disappointed.

They looked like normal people, mostly men, but there were a few women gathering the flowers in their skirts. As they worked they sung softly, like a pale vibration in the night.

“Should we go talk to them?” breathed MaryLou.

“Are you crazy?” said Velma, “We’ll wait until they’re done and follow them.”

“Follow them? I don’t remember agreeing to that,” grunted Jonathan.

“What are you scared?” said Velma.

“No.”

“Maybe they can still grant wishes,” said MaryLou always optimistic.

The children waited a long time, until the dandelion people had picked the field clean. Their minds buzzed like the static of a radio full of adrenalin and curiosity. Finally the figures began to retreat beyond the borders of the pasture, like black ants returning to their mound.
“Let’s go,” whispered Velma and the children silently slunk after them looking for safe shadows to hide their shining eyes.

They followed the dandelion people over another pasture fence to a dirt road staying far enough behind so that they could just here the excited murmurings. In the dark the dandelion people seemed to be a large centipede with many legs stumping along disjointedly, kicking up dust. Finally, a lit barn appeared on a hill and the people filed inside. Lively music pored out from lit windows and plucky fiddles danced, their notes running off into the distant trees like wild deer.

The children followed, crouched over like cats, bobbing in a out of the moonlight. Most of the dandelion people had gone inside so they managed to make it to the barn unseen. They pressed their backs to the old barn wall beneath a windowsill. Velma nodded firmly to the others as a signal. MaryLou and Jonathan nodded back. They all slowly peered over the edge of a worn windowsill and their eyes grew wide.

Adults were dancing about, laughing, drinking a reddish-brown liquid from glasses and recycled jam jars. The heat from inside the barn hit the children’s faces like the exhaled breath of a bull. Women had their dresses pulled up over their knees to demonstrate the newest dance steps, kicking their legs out wildly. A few men were gathered around a metal still, filling glasses, jam jars, and coffee mugs with the drink that seemed to be in such high demand.
“Isn’t that Mr. Jamison?” said MaryLou looking at the man squatting by the still’s spout filling up his mug.

“The grocery store manager?” said Velma, “Look I think that’s the police chief snuggling up to Miss Maryanne!”

“Yeah, and there’s Miss Pillsbury showing her garters,” said Jonathan as their young schoolteacher kicked her legs high like a can-can girl.

“Oh, Miss Pillsbury!” said MaryLou in a stunned whisper, “What on earth is happening?”

“They’re boozin’,” said Jonathan, his mouth drawn into a smirk, “I guess the dandelion people can grant wishes during the prohibition.”

“What do you mean?” asked Velma.

“They’ve gone and made a big batch of dandelion wine.”

The children watched as their school teacher danced with the tractor repair man, her hair wild since she had shaken all the pins from it.

“They’ve gone crazy,” said Velma as the police chief and Miss Maryanne began to kiss very wetly.

“Yeah, grownups never do what they say, but somehow they expect us to. They tell us to be quiet and well-mannered and go to school, but they set different standards for themselves.” Jonathan rolled his eyes.

“Yeah,” breathed Velma and MaryLou from either side of him.

“Let’s go,” said Jonathan and they all went back home, but this time they did not skulk in the shadows or hide behind bushes. They walked in the middle of the road, straight and tall like the trees that shielded their sides and were grateful when they could no longer hear the shrill music or the cackling laughter.

The next day, MaryLou and Velma did not go to school. They picked wild berries with Jonathan in the thickets where they did not have to wonder which lacy garters Miss Pillsbury was wearing that day.

Love Games

On rainy days Scrabble seems like a good idea, but it never ends well. It’s like we both forgot what happened last time.

“’Gailing’ isn’t a word.” I pointed out.

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Fine. Look it up in the dictionary.” I said shoving the dictionary toward him. As he thumbed through the pages and I secretly wished that he’d get a really really bad paper cut, the kind that don’t bleed but are just shallow enough to sting like a million needles. And I would not have blown cool air on it either.

“Well, this is the 1995 edition. Do we have a more recent one?”

“It’s not a word, Blake. It’s not a word.” My voice was becoming uncontrollably exasperated.

“That dictionary is ancient,” he exclaimed pushing it back across the table, “They add words all the time. I’m going to look it up on the internet.” Off he went to the computer in the other room. “Ha! Found it!” rose his voice triumphantly.

“Is it a proper noun?” I rolled my eyes safely out of his sight.

“Dang it!” He slumped back into the room and threw himself into his chair. Shuffling his tiles around, he bit his lip and fell into silence.

“Gosh, would you just go already?”

“Chill out, Jen. My gosh what’s the rush? We don’t have anywhere to be.”

“What’s the point of even playing if we’re just going to sit around and stare at the board.” I slumped my cheek into my palm like a bored child.

“Fine, I’ll go I’ll go.” He put down ‘gut’ on the board. Charming. “Hey, that’s a triple word score! Not bad.” I always hated it when bland words got good scores. The words should be scored based on placement, but also artistic flair I thought. Pretty words shouldn't have the same score as "gut" or "bag" or "cat". I played “lavish” earning a tidy sum of points.

Blake moved about as quickly at dried tar. I got up with a loud sigh to make myself a cup of coffee. When I got back he still hadn’t moved.
I picked up one of the tiles and threw it at him. “S” hit him square in the nose.

“Hey, what the heck?”

“Hurry up and go!” Blake crossed his arms.

“No.” I glared at him from across the table.

“This is just like you. You never finish things that you start!”

“Like what?” He raised his eyebrow cockily.

“Like that garden fence, the faucet in the guest bathroom, and the light bulb in the den still flickers!”

“This is all about my ‘honey-do’ list?” He laughed, eyes softening like caramel. “You see why I wanted to play Scrabble now?” he said looking at me from over his glasses. “The truth always comes out with Scrabble.” He reached over tugged on the ends of my hair. “You’re weird like that.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said in my best still-mad-voice.

“How about I go fix the bulb in the den right now, and then we can finish playing our game?”

“Ok.”

As soon has he was gone I turned his tile tray toward me and picked out all the letters I didn’t need exchanging them for others from the tile bag. When I was done I pushed the tray to exactly where Blake had left it.
He sat back down several minutes later his brown hair a little dusty from the light bulb fixture. A smiled twisted at his mouth as his eyes fell on the tile tray.

“I love you too.”

The trail and the things I learned as I walked along it

My Papa Rick understood how the world worked. He knew things like where gravity came from, what made fireflies glow, why socks always disappeared in the wash and when the world would end. Papa Rick also knew that he was dying so he grabbed my elbow with his knobby, scarred hand, a map of his adventures, and gently tugged me out the door.

"Come," he grunted wheezily, "we're going for a walk." He shuffled his way down the garden path, the path he took everyday even in the rain and sometimes even when he was ill. The grass was tall and yellow and the stalks whispered to each other as though to alert our coming. When the house was out of sight and we were truly alone with the grass, and the path, and the trees that grew denser on either side of us, Papa Rick spoke.

"You are my grandson," he smacked his lips together as though tasting the words, "and grandfathers always pass things on to their grandsons. I wish to give you this trail to use whenever you wish." He shakily raised his arms gesturing to the worn path before our feet.

"Thank you," I said, "but what is on this trail?"

"Everything worth knowing, everything school books failed to teach," he replied.

"Everything worth knowing?" I asked feeling a little insulted that my years of education would be of no use to me, "Then what is the point of school if there are such holes in the material."

"School teaches what men know, so there are bound to be holes. But it's important to know what men know, that way when you think up something clever you are humbled to know that someone thought it before you. School is to humble arrogant young minds."

"So then what is 'everything worth knowing'?"

"Wisdom I'd like to think. Wisdom is different from knowledge and I daren't confuse the two. Facts have their time and place, but wisdom permeates everything. It breathes in the leaves of the trees and and whispers to the passerby. It shines through the treetops and illuminates pathways previously unseen. Do you see anything?" he said with a voice like gravel.

I looked out to the trees and saw trees, my eyes wandered over the rippling grass and saw grass, I followed the trail and saw dirt. I looked over at Papa Rick and saw a faint shadow over his stooped shoulders.

"I see something hanging over you," I said feeling sure and somehow not, like seeing a feeling on someone else's face, knowing that they look happy or sad yet not knowing their exact feeling yourself.

"Oh, yes that's death," said Papa Rick mildly.

"A- are you afraid?" I asked, feeling suddenly scared myself.

"No only the young are afraid of dying. They fear they have not lived. I have lived. To the wizened old, dying is one last adventure. It is sailing over the edge of the world."

My mind started spinning very fast and my eyes darted to the tree trunks, my shoes, to Papa Rick's old plaid shirt in search of answers. I hardly realized that we were still walking, but I was suddenly aware of Papa Rick's ragged breathing next to me.

"Well what would you like me to do with your body?" I asked thinking practically. It seemed like an appropriate question to ask.

"Whatever you like."

"You mean you don't care?"

"Everything that is important I'm taking with me. My body is not important. I am not a body; I am a soul bound to skin."

"Is there anything you want me to do for you?"

"Yes, could you carry me a bit?" he looked at me through his thick glasses and I desperately wished that those eyes would never close. I scooped him up in my arms and he felt as light as a child, light as decay, light as dying. He smelled like toothpaste and faintly of cabbage even though he hated cabbage and never ate the stuff. I moved slowly so as not to jostle him and me put his white head on my shoulder.

"Do you want to head back to the house?" I asked.

"No, keep walking," he said faintly," I've already said goodbye."

"To grandma?"

"Yeah, she knows. Such a beautiful, beautiful woman."

"What about Dad?"

"My return will be as good as a goodbye," he said a little distantly.

"Why did you pick me? Why not Lawrence or Charlotte?"

"Because they have children. When people have children they immediately forget what it's like to be one. Children are like sponges, they lap up stories grandfathers tell them. I did not want my final words to fall on closed ears."

The sun was falling now, hanging in front of us as though I could walk into it. Papa Rick touched my cheek with his calloused forefinger. It was not until he wiped the tear away that I realized I was crying.

"Listen," he said and his eyes grew very focused on something beyond my shoulder, so focused it was as though he was watching the world being made, then they grew distant. Papa Rick understood the world fully now, he understood death, the edge of the world, to where God clasps man's hand.

I turned back to the house, my face utterly wet, turned away from the sun. How light he felt like straw, how wonderful he was like bread still warm, how sad it was to have lost him. Why could he not have stayed? Lord knows the world needs more like him.

I listened to the path, to the birds nesting for the night, to the stars coming out, to the fireflies, to gravity that pressed on my lungs like a vice, to day ending, and to the world as it kept turning.

I had never learned so much on a single walk, with a single sunset.

Sage Swan

His whole world was covered in ice. The pond, the bridge, the tree that stretched out over the water, all was white. It was as if everything was covered with his down feathers. To the swan, the pond no longer seemed his home.

He walked out on the frozen water watching as the coupled ducks, geese, and swans huddled together with their mates. The swan had not found a mate. To the others the whole idea of finding a partner seemed so simple, a task that was just like flying, it was mechanical. The other birds seemed to find each other as though by magnetism. The swan felt a pull in an entirely different direction.

"I'm going to see the humans," he announced. A few of the birds raised their heads.

"Whatever for?" spat a duck from under her partner’s wing.

"I've heard strange rumors," said the swan, “Humans appear to partner up just like we do, but supposedly it is magical. I wonder if it is true.”

"Magical?" guffawed a goose.

"I don’t know, that’s how I’ve heard it described. They call it love. I wonder if I could love."

"What a silly thing to think about," said the duck nestling her head beside her companion.

The couples were quiet now, too cold to speak. The swan shivered and ruffled his white feathers.He walked away from the iced pond into the snow, his webbed feet sinking with every step. “There must be something wrong with me,” he thought as he trudged up a sloping hill. With one look back at the pond, at the other paired off birds, he left.
The light gray sky mirrored the snowy mounds beneath it and at first the swan did not know which way was up. The cold wind sent daggers through his wings, but he flew on towards the tall buildings and streetlights. The snow seemed to dampen the sound of the bustling people on the streets, but the car horns still rang in the swan’s ears. He flew low over the crowds looking for pairs.

"I wonder what love looks like," thought the swan, "perhaps it fuses to people together, perhaps it makes them sparkle like when light hits water.” He saw a twinkling flash of light and felt the elation of hope in his breast like the swelling of a balloon. Down he dove, chasing the sparkle through the busy street. Perhaps he had found it. Maybe this is what love looked like. The glimmer was anchored to a blonde woman’s wrist. something silver struck by the sun.
The swan flew so closely to her that her hair fanned out with the beat of his feathers. She screamed, and the swan realized that glimmer was not what love looked like.

He flew up again, high enough so that he could no longer see the people pointing at him or their stunned expressions muffled by hats and scarves. After circling buildings and dodging telephone poles the swan saw a couple that looked promising. They were holding hands as they walked along the street. The swan flew low over them, but not wishing to startle the humans again, landed several feet away. The couple neared and the swan waddled across their path straining his long neck for a better look at them. He could catch glimpses between the bustling bodies in the street. This had to be love, they were fused at the hands.

The eyes of the curly-haired woman darted between items in the shop windows. The eyes of the man roamed over the figure of another woman who passed him. He looked in the face of the woman who was not his mate and smiled almost greedily.

The swan began to feel that this is not what love looked like either, and took off from the sidewalk. He flew over the milling crowds, the people sitting in the cafes, and the shiny cars in the traffic lanes. The swan's whole body ached and was chilled with the cold. He could hardly feel his wings anymore. He landed on the sidewalk again and tucked in his wings feeling the joints tingle with relief. Some people crowded around him pointing. The swan looked up into their faces, but none of them looked like love.

A little girl wearing a pink coat grabbed her father by the hand. She pointed at the swan bubbling with excitement and her black shoes danced on the spot. They came closer, becoming part of the ring that surrounded the swan. The father knelt beside the little girl an circled his arms around her. The swan noticed how the father's eyes lit up at the sound of her laugh, and how the little girl reached for his large hand. The swan walked swiftly toward them, drawn by a tingling in his stomach. This is love.

The father, startled, picked up his girl away from the swan's reach. The swan stretched his neck and hopped excitedly at the man's feet spreading his wings feeling the weightlessness of flying though he was still grounded.

"This! This is love!" he honked staring eagerly at the perplexed pair. The little girl hid her face in her father's shoulder and he turned shielding the little pink figure from the swan. The swan took the man's coat in his mouth and tugged, hopping more violently.
Glaring at the great bird from over his shoulder, the father swooped his little girl away down the street.

"Did you find it?" asked the goose when the swan returned to the pond.

"Love? Yes, though there isn't much of it." he sighed as he slid a little on the ice. He was sure the ache inside him had nothing to do with exhaustion.

"I told you it was silliness," said the duck.

Sometimes the swan went to see them, the little girl and her father. Usually he couldn't find them, but some days luck pointed them out. She had grown taller and he had grown grayer. They were still love.

The swan never found a mate. He left the shallow pond and built a nest on the top of a building in the city. He bathed in fountains and attracted a bit of attention seeing as he was quite larger than the average pigeon. He became a pet to the pedestrians. They would feed him, look after him, and some would even make wishes on him. He was believed to be magical. They called him the Sage Swan, because his black eyes seemed to know that answer to all the world's questions. He knew love.

You are.

You are the twenty dollars I randomly found in my coat pocket.
You are the puzzle piece that just seems to fit.
You are piano music on a rainy afternoon,
A comfy cushion beside a large window.

You are the strong tree branch I'd tie my swing to.
You are the song that gets stuck in my head.
You are that feeling of looking down
And finding a lanky puppy asleep in your arms.

You are the realization that the clock is five minutes fast.
You are pancakes and ice cream after midnight.
You are a room full of old books,
The well-worn sweatshirt that makes sleep easier.

You are how jazz fizzles.
You are the tingling feeling of sunshine on my shoulders.
You are the paint brush bristles trapped
In an original masterpiece.

You are,
But what am I?

Define Dancing

When no one is looking I like to dance.
Late at night, when the house is still
And no one is there to see
What I am like
What I am.

The truest form of ourselves
Is what we are when we are alone.
When I am alone I am dizzy,
Dizzy with life,
Feeling my stomach plunge
With each leap and twirl.

A confession
Removing a burden that has been on my back for months.
Words I cannot say.
The sleeping world cannot hear,
The dark cannot see.
Relieved of all that I held back,
My feet are drawn to the air as though by strings.
How easy it is to be honest when no one is looking,
When rejection is asleep,
When doubt doesn't come till dawn.

All senses are heightened in the night.
In the dark, speaking is more than words.
This is how I say "I love you,"
With an extended leg and pointed foot.
This is how I say "I miss you,"
With a curved arm and tilted head.
This is how I say "I can't stay,"
With a tight turn and downcast eyes.
These are things I can't say in the daylight,
When people are watching.
These are things I can't say with words,
Only by dancing in my sleeping house,
Before a sleeping world,
An explosion of self in the night.

The Past and the Pending

There is no future there behind you,
That is what is called the past.
It is a dead place; it is cold there.
It only seems alive to you,
Because you splash it with memories,
Scoop the emotions out of yourself
And smear them across what is blank and still.
Memories.
They cannot be brought back to life from the past.
It is a dead place; it is cold there.

Just because you can imagine the future,
does not make it true.
If anything, if you can imagine it,
That is how the future will not be.
The future is alive; it is spiteful.
Try to tame it and it will make you feel foolish.
The future is that heavy pit in your stomach,
The shame of overstepping your bounds.
Dreams.
If anything, if you can imagine it,
That is how the future will not be.

Here you are holding the hand of each,
The past and the future.
Leaning too heavily on one, then the other.
They cannot support you here.
They are wisps.
Ash and vapor.
They cannot support you here.
Stand on your own.
Still take their hands in yours.
The past got you here.
The future will nudge you where to go.
Patience.