โ ๐ ๐๐ช๐ท๐ฝ ๐ป๐ธ๐ผ๐ฎ๐ผ ๐ผ๐ฎ๐ฝ ๐ธ๐ท ๐ฏ๐ฒ๐ป๐ฎโโฆโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโฆโบ
Shooting stars gouged drops of twilight into the skyโs paintings of peach and sapphire, flaking off like tear drops upon a pearly cheek, shivering from sorrow as clouds spilt over the stardust trails. The mistress, sparkling moon of amethyst, arched her back underneath her blanket of stars, tempted to pounce upon the sunโs sullen stream. The dwindling sunlight trickled off behind some vast, curving range of mountainside, untouched and
his. Breezy fields dominated the valley as far as his blackened eye can see, only disturbed by the vast expanse of infectious willow trees prowling upon the waterโs edge whose rolling waves were infected by golden duckweed. But the willowsโ seedlings wouldnโt stubbornly drive themselves into the grassy knoll, it was
his land, after all.
All his.Crackling, rolling thunder purred beyond the waxen sky, sheep scampering, treading upon half-eaten weeds. He lagged behind his flock, nonchalantly sniffing their wool as he collected it in a heap. One wouldnโt think that the wool itself would have such a soothing smell different from the farm animal variety; after all, sweaters were clean as a whistle, spotless and pure, deprived of the natural wool smell. The owners of this wool were born of the earth and they smelt of it too, from their horns to their hooves, from the lush grass and crumbs of mud caked into the bunch of them after a day of prancing. None other than their leader at the helm was also entrenched, belonging to the earth just as all animals did. It was the natural order of the world, but it was also all
his, not the sheepsโ nor anyone elseโs.
He knew deep within his bones this was simply his own ideal little wilderness, contained within his own ranch. It was his bubble, his inner peace, and he could get his fingernails dirty and not care if someone would shy away in disgust, or he could save some earthworms from perishing on a hot summer day and not worry what some haughty city slickers too big for their britches would think of him. And after a long dayโs work he could collapse in a heap and snore as much as he wanted or keep himself up late with the expanse of stars. He would be the audience to spaceโs orchestra quite often, training himself to remember all the names of the constellations, lest he forget and offend them.
It was his own little bubble. Bubbles,
they flew away far too soonโฆ He could never catch them, no matter how much he tried to strike at the air. Maybe it was better that way, for their delicacy would prove to be their own doom. They reminded him of his mother, a maiden in love with natureโs allures, she who donned him with his original, long buried name. He kept that name tight within his library of a heart, dusty and crammed between all other volumes of his lifeโs secrets. Libraries were not unlike labyrinths where he would find himself lost within their snaking shelves of tomes, picking at pages at random while simply trying to collect his thoughts. He would make sure to keep his motherโs book far removed, at the heart of the labyrinth, hidden behind lock and key. It was best not to dwell on
that memory. Do as she did: look to nature and one will look as things are, not as they
should be. There was no questioning nor doubting in which direction birds flocked for winter or the changing of the seasons. It was constant, ordinary yet extraordinary.
Fields of green eased the soul, thatโs what she showed him long ago. Nature was a force to be relied upon, no matter how much he could change with age, heโd always find himself crawling back to his fields and the sheepโs wool would smell the same as it always had, their silken pelts soothing him as he ran his fingers through their coat. Beeโs honey would still trickle down his tongue with as much sweetness as candy and some annoyingly persistent groundhogs would still be leaving him with chunks of spit-out cauliflower. Leaves would cascade down like raindrops in autumn and blazing summers would force him to retire inside for days. However, one aspect of nature got under his skin more and more, year after year as he patrolled, taking extra care to have his animals trample them underfoot. The first time he saw them, his eyes blazed with a brewing storm unbecoming of his calm persona, shaking hands curling up into balls, digging his nails into his palms.
They didnโt belong.Dandelions. They too would infect the land along with his careful arrangement of beauties of flora and fauna, their seeds hanging in the air like parachutes, suspended with as much stillness as gentle glass china. As far as he could remember, his mother had none of the sort, no weeds would plague her cultivated fields of yarrow. That was what he liked to think, at least, that his mom would
never allow a troublesome weed like that to ravage the farm when thereโs plenty more appealing flowers to plant. She strove for perfection much like he did.
Perfection was a glass of green tea, unsweetened of course, in one hand and in the other a good book, all upon a porch wrapping around a ranch house, sunken into a plush swinging chair with a few squeaky chains protesting every so often. Heโd perhaps have a family then, maybe a kid strumming upon an oak guitar, even the occasional imperfect pluck of the string satisfying the buzzing night air. Thatโs all he wanted, noise, but not overwhelming chaos nor stifling silence. Any quietness would simply be natural, natureโs mute song.
Yet, he could never find that perfection if he was burdened with these dandelions, daring to trespass on his fields. Mismatched eyes pinned themselves on their target, blinded by light as his fists tore them from the earth, striking the soil and tossing the limp bodies in a bucket. They started to pile as the ground was barraged, torn by his rage, scarred by the tools of his choosing, hands, hooves, rakes, wheels, boots- all trampled the dandelions until the earth was brown, devoid of life, mud puddles of graveyards. Bare soil was fine. Dandelions, he decided, were not.
He stood, sheen of sweat and dirt upon his temple, eyeing the ground for more dandelions to pop out of some crevice, to grow as briskly as he removed them. One, two, three, four seconds passed with perfect stillness. His breath hitched, refusing to disturb the air in case he exhaled dandelion seeds by chance. An icy northern breeze chilled him as it caressed his fur, whistling against the rusty weather vane perched upon the peak of his home. He watched its cheery spin, captivated for a few more seconds.
All was still.
The ocean of sky winked at him.
No dandelions to be found.
A sigh finally escaped his lips, satisfied in defeating the yellow buds from blooming. Dropping down his rake, he dragged it through the field, ready to collapse from exhaustion, seven gorges in the mud trailing after him relentlessly. The rake had retired, planted in the soil delicately besides the porch where he had sprawled out in a hammock, stripping off his clothes stained with grass. Sleep swiftly overtook him much like waves would knock him over as a kit, pulling and pushing him out with the tide. His limbs were weightless; his dreams as murky as the clouds trickling slowly over the starry sky. Rain leaked from the walnut roof to the steps of his porch, tapping against the tin bucket as the dandelions he plucked rested within.
He had only risen again in the early morning, fog submerging his land in a mysterious serenity, one he could only recall from his motherโs fields, lined with white budded yarrow, the same plants that his nose would recoil from as a kit. That same spicy, biting aroma had flickered in the air, easing him into a pleasant peace. He should drift back to sleep now, his eyes had decided, eyelids sinking closed, sheep nose twitching with satisfaction. Stay in the fog forever, stay with the yarrow.
Be with your mom again.No. This isnโt right. His eyes had shot open, glaring into the blank fog, fog glaring back into him.
Donโt think of her. Donโt you dareโฆ The mist was getting closer. He couldnโt see his own hands, then his chest, then his muzzle. He was sleepyโฆ He was sleeping... He was dreaming?
Donโt remember the dream. Dreams were not to be trusted. They were of what should have been. Wake up.He failed this time. He was lost in his thoughts again, heโs been here once before. He was addicted to it once he had his little dose of memories. Yetโฆ He felt this time was different. Was it the yarrow? He didnโt remember planting those, no, he refused to, but he smelt them. They were to blame for this, they reminded him too much of his mother.
But he didnโt have any yarrowโฆ Dandelions. A young kit opened his bubbled eyes, sneezing, tears collecting at his striped cheeks. Walls of grass greeted him wherever his legs lended him, thumping the hard ground desperately, lost within an abyss of emerald. He was lost,
again, even after promising his mother he wouldnโt run off, but that only lasts so much when a captivating butterfly begs to be chased through the fields. And, after every time, he was pleading for her to have mercy on him, to not abandon nor forget him in the towering fields of yarrow.
She never actually did abandon him, yet she was slower by the day to find her kit. An eternity was spent in the field that day, his blind search guiding him to a field of yellow flowers unlike he has ever seen at the farm, where he had found his mother. She was justโฆ Staring blankly at the flowers, the dandelionsโฆ He mouthed off his question, asking what the flowers were, but she didnโt hear him. She just stared, looking like she didnโt even see him. She turned and glared past him, not greeting his eyes, ignoring his demands as he repeated himself. If she wasnโt going to listen, he was determined to raise his voice until he was yelling at her, screaming, hoping to get an answer, any sign that she could
see him. From that point on, with the appearance of those dandelionsโฆ She wasnโt the same. She was not fit by any means.
It was only a matter of time before the whole field was pillaged by those same flowers until she couldnโt bear to go outside, lest she catch sight of them and conceal herself within the house. Pictures and corners slowly grew a layer of dust that he was determined to clean, to make normal again. He would hurriedly bolt about the mansion, cooking and tidying, hoping to prove himself worthy of his motherโs words, but they were never going to come. He didnโt have the time nor energy to rid herself of those dandelions, after all, that
cursed word that came out in a hiss whenever he thought of them. She had passed not a month later. He was truly alone, abandoned, having to fend for himself
soon. Surviving meant that he had to shove his feelings down, swallow them whole like huge pills, lock them behind a maze with no exit. All he had to do was survive, then he could figure out the rest.
Dandelions meant illness. His eyes snapped open, clearing his head of the dream, wiping the wet streams off his face. There was more work to do, he shouldnโt be slacking off at a time like this. Focus on work, not the dream, donโt face reality yet.
Face it. No, he should go check on his chickens now, pluck the eggs from underneath them.
You killed her. He collected his dirty clothes, switching them out for a clean flannel and shorts.
She died because you couldnโt get rid of them. He leapt down the stairs as swiftly as he could, slipping on the mud but recollecting his balance.
Get rid of them all. He folded his sleeves to his elbows, pinning them there.
The dandelions. He took the dandelion bucket and dumped it.
Theyโll destroy you, too, light them on fire. Do it. Do it. Do it now. Wiping his forehead and collecting his bangs with his palm, he let out a groan. He couldnโt do it. The dandelions were torn apart upon the dirt, sick, lonely,
pitiful. Like his mother, curled up in a ball, sick, lonely, pitiful, all alone. Only a son to pry open her mouth to feed her. Youโve been so alone all this time.But they didnโt deserve it, he decided, as he wavered, towering above them much like the grass walls enveloping his tiny kit body when he hid on a summer day. Was it really the dandelions? Was it
him? He decided he couldnโt trust his thoughts any longer, even memories proved to be quite difficult to recall. Donโt think of it anymore. Forget it.
So, he didnโt. Go back to the heart of his maze, lock his memories back up. Enjoy the little things, like scrambled eggs for breakfast or his newfound passion for crepe making. He grew a spectacular recipe for banana chocolate crepes, but no one to share it with but himself. Maybe it was for the best. Othersโ company only served to hurt him, after a while, when the dandelions closed in. They were poison,
absolute poison, but he was not a violent person by any means, not furious enough to burn them. Perhaps he was destined to be the only person the dandelionsโ curse had spared. He never knew his father and he had not a clue what happened to him, but now he was beginning to realize how truly mysterious and calculating nature could be. It didnโt matter to him how they died, he just knew it was the dandelionsโ deed.
Sure enough, one seed or two must have planted themselves before he could rip them out. Soon the field was sprouted anew with yellow flowers, the whisker-shaped seeds gliding through the wind as he kicked them, defeated by their invasion. Might as well help out, spread the seeds himself with a kick here and there like some interpretive dance. โ
Hey!โ He continued, folding his arms, restraining them. โWhat are you doing?โ He continued kicking the flowers. โHon, can you hear me?โ He spun around with a huff, an anxious biting of the lip.
His voice tried to muster a simple โ
what,โ but instead his jaw went completely numb, lips parted in shock.
It couldnโt be. He was still dreaming, right? Nature truly was a mysterious being.
It couldnโt be. Stop it, wake up. He didnโt want to see her again. He didnโt want to be reminded of that time again. He was hallucinating. She was sick.
Keep ripping out the dandelions. Make her go away.
He kept kicking, stomping the flowers, ignoring her pleas for him to listen. Her cold fingers dragged his sleeves, holding him back, but she was but a matador attempting to stop a raging bull,
no, she was the red cape tempting a bull into attack. She wanted this, right? The dandelions had
killed her. They had torn apart his family.
They had ruined his life! He was such a coward since he couldnโt burn them before, but he would
finally make it right, all for her! Each dandelion he tore down was but a worthy sacrifice all for her. Now the soil was being grounded into a paste, mud clinging onto the underside of his shoe until he fell to his knees,
digging, digging, until there was no color. No green. Keep going! There was more green, more seeds probably planted beneath.
Keep going.โ
Stop!โ the harsh word rang out, echoing down his ears while his brain made sense of what the word even meant for a few seconds. Fine. He would at least spare her a glance, if she truly was his mom. He wiped his chin on impulse, smearing his scruff with the essence of Earth. No matter. He did what was raring to be done.
Turning to look at her, he noticed that she had backed off, shaking,
convulsing, as if lost in a colorless, cold blizzard, afraid and alone. She begged him once again to stop, though he had only met her eyes. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, not out of love but of a newfound fear of her son. Wiping his face again, he mixed his own streams of tears with the mud, cleaning off his nose while taking a step toward her. But she had only stepped backwards, picking at her arms anxiously. Her lips parted but no words freed themselves from her cage.
โIโm
sorry,โ his gaze dropped low, refusing to see her reaction as he apologized for his outburst. He kept his eyes hidden, blocked off by his bangs, just as he grew accustomed to do when interacting with strangers became too daring.
She was supposed to be your mother. Keep your eyes up. โ
N-no. You donโt mean it, not like the other times and not
now. Youโฆ You killed me,โ she accused, glancing about as if searching for an escape. She was like a frantic animal backed into a corner. He became awfully aware of how tall he had gotten,
towering over her. Her breathing only quickened as he circled his prey, edging closer.
Eyes shying away again, he had confirmation of it after all. It was
all his fault. She probably grew tired of being a single parent and wished he didnโt exist. She was a widow in a culture of countless children, populated houses, and boisterous family gatherings. She could never find the same satisfaction as her peers, no, sheโd been rewarded with pitiful glances and a sad excuse of โsorry for your lossโ whenever she set foot outside.
He got in the way of her happiness. It was all him.โYou look so much like your father,โ her friends had always said.
โHe looks too much like his father,โ she always said in turn.The grassโฆ It always towered over him. He was too much of a runt to even see over it, save for a few hops to gain height. Heโd always get lost in its twisting labyrinth of beetles and green as a kit. Frequently he still found himself sprawling out into the earthโs cushion, clutching onto what little he remembered of his youth.
The grass! It hid things in it, but also hid his impressionable and peaking eyes from the outside world. Did he really not remember his father
at all? Even
that he started to doubt as his stomach thickened with uneasy realization, a sledgehammer tearing apart a brick wall. The grass and his father, they were unforgettably intertwined, yet he couldnโt exactly pinpoint how, until
nowโฆ She, his mother, herโฆ She shielded him from his father, behind that wall of grass, his true protector in the form of nature. He wasnโt a good person. โIโm
not like my father,โ he declared abruptly, eyes blazing, shooting upwards.
It wasnโt him. His fatherโฆ
He tore her dandelions. He destroyed her happiness. He was his son, but he wasnโt anything like him. โI would
never harm you, whatever he didโฆ I
wonโt! I promise!โ He couldnโt burn those dandelions.
Silence spilled into the air, dandelion seeds pouring out with the wind like snowflakes. Maybe dandelions had their own beauty to them... Their seeds sparkled, reflecting sunlight akin to diamonds as they flooded
his field.
His mouth shut into a thin line, deciding to instead watch the gentle sway of her hair in the breeze as she began to truly see him as
him. A thin hand shooed away her tears as she slowly returned towards him, tracing his features with delicacy as if he would be burnt by her touch.
โDandelionsโฆโ she drifted off dreamily as her voice still shuddered. โNoโฆ Y-youโre
nothing like him. You are my Dandelionโฆโ He pulled her in for a hug. She smelled of the same yarrow.
Dandelion. His labyrinth opened up, dusting off a long buried book.
That was his name: the weeds that his mother stressed so much over and the weeds that he wished to destroy. Dandelions were a sign of an
imperfect yardโฆ That meant an
imperfect home and an
imperfect family.
โWhy did you name me that?โ he murmured softly, pulling away from the embrace.
She found enough confidence to greet his eyes, blinking faintly. โDandelionsโฆ They were imperfect,
ugly weeds to your father, butโฆโ
โImperfections have their place in nature too.โ
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