My balcony, today, has hit peak dandelion. And peak aphid, or whatever that is, that wee spindly thing nestled in the puff. That’s two feet of sprawling weed, topped with three dainty puffs—all in all, quite an outing. Quite an outing, indeed.
I have to get back to work in a minute, but I wanted to savour that, savour my dandelion. I feel like I grew it, though I didn’t. Mother put out the planter. She filled it with dirt. The dandelion took root. My contribution was not pulling it up.
(If I don’t see another spring, whoever takes my planter…let a dandelion in it.)
Today, I’ve got to plot out a murder mystery. I’ve got my crimeline going, who did what to whom, who knew what when. I’m okay on my crimeline, but now comes the hard part: making police work sound interesting.
I wish there were more books on the weird personal dramas that dog the heels of disaster. Like, there’s a murder upstairs, but me, I’m the weed guy. I’ve got a kitchen full of dime bags and a cop peering in. Or the big one’s just hit—an earthquake; the bomb—but what I want to know is when the power’s coming back. That body in my freezer won’t stay fresh forever….
Murder mystery. Crimeline. Right. I’m going. Just…dandelion, eh? I grew a dandelion.