"But you mustn't pick the neighbor's flowers,” I ought to tell my son. He has just presented me with a bedraggled bouquet of pilfered petunias, some of them still clinging to their roots.
Bits of sand and sundered petals sift confetti patterns on the floor; I don't know whether I should grin or growl.
Still Michael's grimy fist thrusts forth the offering with such sweet innocence that I cannot scold him. Together, we arrange tattered blossoms in stoneware teacups. When some of the tender petals, haplessly torn from supporting stems and foliage, want to float, the boy laughs out loud and pokes them down into a tepid bath.
I place each makeshift vase on the kitchen windowsill, peering outside to see if any dandelions beckon in the lawn. Sure enough, several dozen clumps of unsown sunshine dot the emerald grass, each lifting spiky heads of golden fuzz from geometrically perfect leaves, dog-toothed and green.
My son's eyes are green too--limpidly so and trusting.
Do you know what flowers, Mommy really likes?”
Michael follows my pointing finger to the yard. Soon the whole house is filled with dandelions. There are dandelion leis on every doorknob and dandelion nosegays in my shoes. All the drinking glasses overflow with dandelions, and on the kitchen table sits a dandelion wreath.
Catching a glimpse of myself in the reflecting sheen of the toaster oven, I wipe wispy snatches of white dandelion down from the countertops and smile.
Soon Michael's father will come home from work. Already I can see the laughter in his eyes as he holds me at a scrutinizing arm’s length and taps a lilting question on my cheek.
“Being somebody’s mom,” I'll have to say, “means wearing dandelion garlands in your hair."
