My dandelion has died.
Last night, its puffs blew off. This morning, I woke to its dried-out remains. How did it know? Why didn’t it…I mean, Christ. Its hard work was done. It had all summer to bask, leaves up, roots warm. All summer, but no. It just lay down and died.
I can’t help but feel betrayed, like my dandelion chose this. We can do that, human beings—we can do psychogenic death. We can lie down, give up, and our brains sputter out. For us, it takes days, but for dandelions, it’s overnight.
Я ненавижу этого мертвого одуванчика.
My dandelion’s deserted me.
(I snatched its last seeds and poked them into the dirt.)
Anyway, I got a few weeks of dandelion. I can’t remember how many, four, maybe six. I feel like…this one time, I stole this book. I had it and I was reading it, and someone had torn it in half. The last page was blank, so I thought it was just the cover gone, but it was the whole last five chapters. Someone, like…pre-stole half the book I stole. Someone pre-stole my dandelion summer.
Я ненавижу вора одуванчиков.
Mm. I just sneezed. My nose itches.
Worst. Obituary. Ever.