Today I watched a small girl pick a dandelion in front of the church. She had black eyes that shone in the sun like an onyx stone set into a ring, skin the color of a fresh baked peanut butter cookie, and a light pink dress with yellow polka dots and yellow trim. After she leaned over and plucked the stem from the sparse grass, she took a deep breath, stretching her cheeks like two small balloons, and blew the dandelion gently. The tiny white seeds scattered and swirled across the church yard. She closed her eyes to make a wish, and I closed my eyes too. I closed my eyes and wished that I had my own dandelion. That I had breathed in deeply and filled my lungs up with my prayers and desires and fancies. That when I released the air, I would send the seeds into my future, planting my hopes and dreams and giving them life.

But when I opened my eyes, the small girl with the pink dress and dark eyes had run off and I was left standing alone in front of the church, feeling all of my twenty-one years. The cool spring air brushed my hair across my face and I thought about picking a dandelion myself and making my own wish. But I didn’t. Because I knew that when the petals floated into the sky, they wouldn’t disappear into the clouds. They wouldn’t make my wishes come true. I knew they would land in the church yard and grow into weeds, pulling up grass and making the gardeners grumble. And I thought to myself... that realization was the saddest thing about growing up.