It was sometime in January when we were walking and breathing crisp winter air. My companion turned to me, waving a full dandelion in my face. “This dandelion is invincible!” I took the pale green stalk, eyeing it skeptically and slowing my pace to consider it. I decided I wasn’t intimidated, so I blew at it. The seeds didn’t budge.
I looked around to see if my companion or anyone else was watching before I blew at it again, and again.
I blew at it with all my might. I shook it around like I was some spastic witch casting a curse. I jumped up and down with this dandelion.
It remained intact.
I waited again until I felt no one was looking at me, twirling this stubborn weed in my fingers. When I felt the coast was clear, I ripped off the seeds manually in downy clusters. I worked methodically until every last seed was removed. I threw them into the wind where they belonged. I don’t remember making a wish.
I know that I cheated, but what is it about the air in our lungs that validate the wish on a dandelion, a birthday candle? What is it about extinguishing something, leaving only a vertical line? What is it about the breath we hold when we drive through a dark tunnel?
11:11 pm and midnight aren’t times I pay much attention to anymore. Part of it has to do with the fact I have few reasons to stay up past eleven. I know that it’s not that I don’t want things to have or to happen. It’s definitely not that I have everything I need.
I’m not sure exactly where my faith in these small miracle workers went. I wish I knew.