The dandelion shouldn’t have been there. There wasn’t another one anywhere near where we stood, before the mausoleum as we interred ashes on a beautiful midweek afternoon.
The dandelion shouldn’t have been there. The treatment should’ve kept it at bay, like the others. Someone should’ve pulled it, knowing we’d be gathering there this day in that very spot.
The dandelion shouldn’t have been there. But there it was. And it was perfect.
She said when she first met him that he had dandelions all over his yard. And she wanted to do something about them all because they were weeds.
They may be weeds to some, he had said, but to me they’re pretty little yellow flowers.
The dandelion was supposed to be there, planted by God as a reminder, a whisper from newest saint in heaven to his beloved.