Flight of fancy

Some things begin with a touch of destiny.

The strong southern wind blew up an excited and anxious dandelion. She almost whooped as she was swept up by a sudden yet encouraging burst of air. She floated along trying to catch her balance but her large head and tiny stem just weren’t designed for that. She was always meant to be swept away.

And she went on and on wondering how long before she found her new home. Her sisters had told her tales of their journeys. Some had sailed over many rooftops, some just over one. She decided she would fly as long as she could before she found her new home. So she danced and danced with the wind. The more she danced and spun and twirled, the further she seemed to go. The wind saw this and his excitement grew. He helped her along as she spun around and smiled at the hope of how far she would go.

Over rooftops and gardens, over cities and streets she flew. Maybe she’d rest on a 5th floor balcony for a few seconds,  but then she always found the wind again. She flew till she was dizzy; she flew till her head felt light, but she couldn’t find a single spot she wanted to settle in. There was always something not right. The ground was too dry. The sun was too bright. The neighbors were too colorful; they might think she was not good enough, so she kept up her mission.

As time passed, she started losing her feathery hair; before they all went, she must find a home. She passed a piece of earth beside a small pond. It will get too soggy when it rains she thought. Then she passed an old lady’s garden. The old lady will surely chop me up when I grow up and stuff me in a vase for a few days and watch me wilt before her eyes. People can be cruel she was told. Then she passed the crevice of a high wall. Her kind could thrive quite well in cracks and crevices, but there would be no one to admire her all the way up there she thought.

The wind grew weary of her fussy ways.

“I have brought you to so many patches of earth that you can call home but you refuse to stop and grow,” he said. “Make a decision dandelion. Where do you want to grow?”

She looked around desperately, surrounded by patches of earth. “I don’t know,” she said. “Nothing looks perfect.”

The wind helped move her along till at last all her hair fell out and she plummeted into some soil. When she opened her eyes again, she coughed. Horns blared. Then she saw a giant shoe step so close it almost crushed her tiny head. The wind looked down and sighed as he saw her struggling. She was now the lone occupant of the dry soil under the pole of a street lamp. The lights  kept her up all night. She cursed her dancing. She cursed the soil. And she cursed the wind.

The next day, a truck stopped a few feet away from her. The weeders had come.

You’re only a weed if you end up where you weren’t meant to be.

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