you are here

this is where the dandelion goes to die – on the window sill in the kitchen where the Sun dozes off to sleep. she is washing the only three plates you own together. the bourbon looks guilty on the counter. it’s been two hours since dinner and you ask her to come to bed. your words rock the glass out of her hands and the shards kaleidoscope across the floor. both the petals and the stem have been used as chinese medicinal treatment for thousands of years. you grab the first aid kit and she tells you that it will never be enough. at first you wonder what more could she need, and then all the glass shards come back together in your head; it all makes sense.

at birth, dandelions turn to face the Sun. the whole thing happens in reverse. everything, that is. the plates return to the sink, the Sun reaches for the middle of the sky. you moonwalk into the first restaurant from the first date. the ketchup stain peels from your sleeve and floats into the air. the same with her lipstick. the same with her hair in your bathtub. the dirt kisses your knee goodbye. the shimmer escapes the diamond. now you know what “i’m not ready” sounds like in reverse. the same with “it’s too soon.” the same with tears. the same with tears. the rods and cones in your eyes release all the yellow from her dress and give it back to the world. the synapses in your brain misfire, returning every memory, and you send her back into oblivion. everything returns to where it came from and then fades to black.

you fast forward to the present and you’re still not sure how you got here. the scientists say dandelions are packed with tons of calcium and iron but you don’t believe dandelions weigh a ton at all. the notes she used to leave on the mirror in the morning have faded away or fallen from the weight, but you convince yourself that she ran out of paper.

the great thinkers believed the dandelion represented the Universe. you used to sit in the living room with just the windows open, she would smile and you would only ask for mercy. when they are full and bright they represent the Sun. sometimes you hear the front porch creek and you think it’s her. it never is. when they die and turn white and frail, they represent the moon. sometimes she calls you crying about the garden you used to keep, and all you can hear is the liquor creeping out of her voice. when the seeds of a dead dandelion fly into the wind, they represent the stars.

three months later you are washing the only two dishes you own, and you make eye contact with the diamond you keep on the window sill. this is where love goes to die – waiting to be carried by the wind and placed among the lion-toothed stars, until the Sun wakes up in the morning.

– Lino Anunciacion