My husband calls them weeds, but to me they’re pretty yellow flowers. That’s what my daughter called dandelions when as a child she would pick them for me from our front yard. Or back yard. Or side yard. Because they grew everywhere.
She’d come into the house with a dandy bouquet clenched in her little fist, each yellow bloom picked at toddler-palm length. I’d put them in a juice glass and display them by the kitchen window, to her delight.
It’s been years since I’ve received a dandelion bouquet. Because as a toddler grows to preschooler and beyond, the dandies for mom arrive less frequently, ’til one day they stop coming, the pretty yellow flowers having lost their allure.
My daughter is a senior in college now, soon to graduate, too busy writing term papers to take time for dandelions. So today it was my turn to pick a few, put them in a juice glass, and set them by the kitchen window. Since she lives two hours away from home, I sent her a photo with a text so she could enjoy the pretty yellow flowers, too. Our roles were reversed, but once again we shared a bouquet.
This year my husband says he’s going to spray the damn dandelions, along with the creeping Charlie that is overtaking our yard. And that’s OK with me. I already have my pretty yellow flowers by the window.