THE DANDELION
THE DANDELION A dandelion grows on the side of the hillside. There is only one. Its stem stands delicately on the damp earth, a few centimeters from the grass that covers the esplanade. Its tiny, almost transparent stamens form a perfect whitish sphere. It seems that it wants to touch the lower part of the railing of wooden logs that delineates the hill. In the middle of that landing stands the village hermitage. Now it’s just me and my dog. Rendel is busy relentlessly sniffing out every bush, looking for something to put in his mouth. From time to time, he marks territory by lifting his paw above the grass. My eyes, however, are on the plant. I’ve never seen a dandelion so lonely. And look, I’m old. I try to understand how one could have germinated on its own in the middle of the muddy soil. Shouldn’t there be more? My background in botany isn’t a big deal. But I do know what they say about them: You have to take one, blow, and make a wish. So my only explanation is that it’s there for some reason. Maybe it was waiting for me. Rendel is still busy. I get a little closer to my goal. Without a second thought, I bend down, and with my fingertips I hold the stem from below. I carefully peel it out of the dirt. Now it’s mine. It’s my genie of the lamp. Let’s see if it grants a wish. I close my eyes. Think of something wonderful. Blow on the cotton dome. I smile.
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What have I asked for, you say? When it is fulfilled, I will tell you.
