Dandelions

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A cheery birdsong twitted through the air as the first warm rays of sun laid their hands upon Oliver's face. His eyelids fluttered open and his lips curled into the same smile as they had every day for years. He thrust his down comforter aside and pulled himself up and out of bed. The cracking of his joints had become an accepted part of his morning routine, and so it had long since ceased to bother him, even as its frequency and volume increased with each passing season. One morning, perhaps, he would find himself unable to leave his bed, but not this morning.
After a quick stretch, he jaunted over to the wash room and greeted his reflection in the mirror. His smile soon became a frown however, and he brought his hand up to survey the roughness on his chin. "Well, Mr. Beard," he said. "Back again, I see. Now, I've told you to stay away. My word, will you ever listen?" It was the same one-sided exchange that had preceded all of his morning shaves since he was a boy of sixteen.
Rarely did Oliver stop to think of how lonely his world had become since then. The years between boyhood and middle age, while filled with a world of joy, had also come with their share of pain. Oliver had never known his father, having lost him in infancy to disease. His mother, ever grief-stricken, had been his only friend and companion until she, too, passed away, whereupon his sole means of company came in the form of a stray black cat whom he'd named Lucy. That was years ago, and all that remained of the three---father, mother, and dear little Lucy---were the fading black and white photographs that sat by Oliver's bedside.
Nevertheless, Oliver refused to let such tragedies weigh him down. He stubbornly clung to youth and playfulness. Adding to the ease of this was an inheritance left to him by his mother. It ensured her son would only ever spend his days in exactly the way he wanted, and so Oliver did.
Now, "Mr. Beard" having departed, Oliver brushed his teeth and combed his hair, just as Mother had instructed. He dressed, pulling on his favorite trousers and adjusting his suspenders to just the right tautness. All he needed then was his proper jacket and he was ready to go.
The time of year was late September. The days were still warm, but all around were the tell-tale signs of imminent decay. Oliver delighted in looking for them. He loved all seasons, but the autumn brought with it a unique kind of comfort, he felt. Perhaps this comfort was merely how it felt to accept and become accustomed to death. Perhaps it was a kind of freedom: the opportunity to witness death without mourning, without sadness or fear. Such philosophical musings, when they came to him, were shoved aside before long, however. Such grownup thoughts, he decided, should be of no concern to a playful young lad.
Thus, with a light step and even lighter mind, Oliver traipsed over the grassy acres behind his home and headed straight for the thick copse at the edge of his property. Beyond this boundary of wood and leaves was the place he loved the most. It was like something out of one of his favorite fairy tales: a little meadow, hidden away behind the trees. Birds and small animals brushed in and out of the branches and underbrush. A modest brook splashed along one edge, filling the space with it's soft, laughing rhythm. It was the kind of place Oliver would have built for himself if nature had not already done it so perfectly.
As Oliver drew nearer, he spied the tiny patches of white that dotted the ground. This was perhaps Oliver's favorite sign that the summer was dying. The dandelions, which had been a bright buttery yellow the week prior, now stood like little old men, their white fluff ready to sail away with the next breeze. Such a dramatic change seemed like magic to Oliver. Since his boyhood, the process had fascinated him. As the years went by, it had become almost sacred, a yearly ritual of nature that must never be disturbed. The desire to pick an aged dandelion and blow away its down had seized him many times, but to Oliver, such an act was a crime. Never force what nature will do in its own time, he would remind himself.
Filling his lungs with the sweet scent of his fairy playground, Oliver found a clear patch of grass and laid himself down. His eyes scanned the clouds above for interesting shapes as the music of the meadow drifted into his ears. At length, his eyes grew tired and shut. In the darkness, the sounds that danced around him were amplified, and he judged it all beautiful. 
Excitement rose within him when he heard the cracking of twigs and a rustling of leaves. Something, he was sure, had joined him. Too large to be a bird, he thought as he continued to listen. His new guest padded softly about. An animal of some kind, he said to himself. For a moment, he wondered if he should open his eyes and have a look, but comfort soon won out and they remained closed. After all, his new animal friend sounded rather small and hardly interested in him or curious about his presence. All in all, Oliver felt quite safe and unconcerned. With peace in his heart and mind, he nearly drifted off into a mid-morning slumber.
It was a slight but persistent tickle on the tip of his nose that brought him back to full consciousness. Instinctively, his eyes flew open. He brought his hand up to relieve the itch. Upon inspection, it was clear that he held a single dandelion seed between his fingertips, its delicate white parachute still attached. Movement caught his eye then. There were more of them, many more floating in the air above him. His heart leaped in his chest as he sat up to greet them. Oliver smiled broadly as he watched them dance and flit all around him.
"Oh my," said a small voice some distance away. "You're awake."
Oliver turned toward the voice's source. There, sitting almost in the center of the meadow, was a child. She was small, no older than ten, Oliver reasoned. Her golden hair shown in the mid-morning sun. She smiled warmly at Oliver, but he could not bring himself to smile back. Her presence there unnerved him. Never before had he shared this special place with another person. Seeing her there, invading his meadow, made him feel as though some kind of spell had been broken, some kind of innocence lost.
As these thoughts raced through his mind, Oliver's eyes landed on the one thing that would outdo them all. In her hand, the girl held a dandelion stem, freshly plucked. Even at a distance, Oliver could see that it was completely bald. Furthermore, all about the spot where the girl sat were no fewer than five other stems, all similarly defiled. Oliver felt his blood begin to boil as the child cast aside the stem she was holding and reached to grab another snowy bloom nearby.
"No!" Oliver shouted. Without even thinking, he lunged toward the girl. In less than a second, he was upon her. She shrieked and writhed and wriggled in his grasp. All the while, Oliver shouted, "How dare you! You little destroyer! How would you like it? How would you like it?!" 
With animal ferocity, he grabbed a handful of the child's hair. He pulled and pulled as she screamed and screamed. Strands came off in his hand, but he would not be satisfied. No matter how much came out, Oliver wanted more. All the while, the girl begged for mercy and kicked at him with all her strength. Oliver just kept yanking. Images of Lucy flooded his memory. He remembered the sting of her bite on his wrist, how angry it had made him. He remembered her yowl and her hiss as he punished her, just as he was punishing this dreadful child now. How easily her neck had broken, poor Lucy.
Before he could even stop himself, a sickening crack rent the air. The screaming stopped, as did the kicking. The child fell limp, all tension gone from her muscles. Alarmed, Oliver let her fall to the ground and quickly stood up. Panic set in. Panic and regret. What had he done? How could he have lost himself like that again, even if she had been a perfectly beastly child? After the accident with Lucy, he had promised himself he would never harm another living thing. “Never force what nature will do in its own time,” he told himself. Not even a dandelion should be plucked from the earth.
“Oh, God!” Oliver cried. Panic and regret now mixed with shame and grief. Thought gave way to nervous motion, and he sped off for home, heedlessly trampling what was left of the dandelions in his haste.
Category:Mental Illness
Category:Nature
Category:Jdeschene
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