Stop And Blow The Dandelions

“Recent studies in physics, such as those conducted by researchers at the University of California, Berkeley, have explored the concept of quantum entanglement—the phenomenon where particles become interconnected in such a way that the state of one particle instantaneously influences the state of another, regardless of the distance between them. This principle, known as non-locality, suggests that the universe operates on a level of interconnectedness that transcends classical notions of space and time.”

***

Beep. Beep. Beep. Her head feels fuzzy. Is she imagining the faceless blue figures hovering above her? “Dealing with some unexpected bleeding here…” Some shuffling. A hand on her arm. “Nurse, grab blood products and suction. Someone get the husband.” Husband? Oh yes, he’s supposed to be here. She can’t bring herself to remember where he is—and lets herself fade back into black. 

Myra met the love of her life in the middle of rural Texas’s ice storm season. She’d had a whirlwind of a week—characterized by eight-hour ER shifts and nursing school exams—and was now ushering people into a shelter as a storm wreaked havoc on poorly-built infrastructure. “Come in ma’am, find a seat…it’s okay, sweetheart, we’ll take care of that broken ankle… please don’t worry about the money sir, this is a free service…”

The door slammed open as people rushed in, huddled together en masse against torrents of ice. Some had suitcases and pets. Others had nothing but sneakers and their pajamas.

Myra carefully bandaged a woman’s head injury, avoiding direct pressure over the shallow depression that spoke of ping-pong-ball-heavy hail. A bouquet of roses lay abandoned at the woman’s and her husband’s feet with a card: Happy Anniversary!

“You keep that head still, alright? Sir, find me if she starts feeling dizzy, weak, nauseous…” She gave both wife and husband a quick, hopefully reassuring smile. Her chest ached. “I’ve got to go, but I’’ll have someone check on you soon.”  

She went to a newcomer, a little girl who’d slipped on ice and broken an ankle. Beside her was a man with a red-stained icicle impaled in his forearm…

The phone rang. One of Myra’s colleagues met her gaze across the room, landline held to their ear. Nobody’s coming, he mouthed, until the storm’s over.

Myra catalogued the scene around her. Nearly four dozen folk, ten staffers, only three medically—Myra tripper over an old woman's cane, would’ve landed face-flat on the ground, if it weren’t for a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Hey, there. You alright?”

Myra took in the stranger's too-thin sweater, messy brown curls, sluggishly bleeding laceration on his left cheek—and blushed. “Yeah, sorry—”

“Don’t be. Is there anythin’ I can do to help?” He frowned, dark brows furrowing together as he rummaged around his sweatpants’ pocket. “Damn. I don’t have my ID on me, but I served as an army medic for a while. I can help if you’ll let me.”

Something about him doesn’t make her think twice. “There’s this little girl I just talked to, if you could set her ankle…and take this kit, if you could bandage the man’s arm to your right…”

“No husband? Then start the ligation. Note that her physician had to act as healthcare proxy.”

He moved as well as any doc; efficient and gentle. She gave him a grateful smile whenever they crossed paths. The storm roared outside; ice clattered against the shelter’s windows, heaters buzzing frantically with the effort of keeping everyone warm…

Beep. “Bleeding’s slowing—I think we have a chance to save the baby.” Beep. 

Finally, finally, the storm abated. Police officers and EMS were soon at the door, taking people home and others to the city hospital. Myra caught the stranger by the wrist just as he was about to leave. “Hey, hold on a second…did you get any attention on that cut?” 

He gave her a sheepish smile, dimples flashing (she blamed the butterflies in her stomach on exhaustion). “Y’all have enough on your plate. I can handle it myself—” 

 “Nonsense. Come here.” Myra sat him down on the entrance steps before wiping the wound with an alcohol pad. It was deep enough to warrant a few stitches. “This’ll hurt a bit, okay? Try to keep still.” He barely flinched as she wove the needle through his skin. “Thank you, by the way, for your help. Don’t tell anyone I didn’t verify you, though. I kind of like working here."

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Thanks for lettin’ me help.”

 She smiled, carefully tilted his head to the side to place a bandage. Her eyes catch on the small, bent rose in his pocket.

The man followed her gaze and pulled the flower into his palm. “That sweet lady with her husband? She gave me this when I was fixin’ up his leg…good man, that one. Didn’t want anyone paying attention to him until she was taken care of.” He straightened out the rose’s crumpled petals. “Anyway, you ought to have it. You were the hero tonight.”

Myra blushed as she reached out to take the rose. His palm was rough against hers. Torn up like someone who found pride in working with their hands. “I didn't even get your name.”

“Thomas Brown.” He glanced down at her badge and smiled softly. “It’s nice to meet you, Myra.”  

The anesthesia is wearing off; the ache in her stomach is so sharp she can barely breathe. “It’s okay, darlin’. You can go back to sleep in a minute—we just wanted to introduce you to your son.” 

Myra can hear him already, wailing like his life depends on it. The nurse puts him in her arms and God, he’s so small…but he’s there. He’s alive and safe and Myra didn’t want his first memory to be of her crying but she can’t help herself…

“Nice to meet you, Tommy.” 

***

Myra can’t believe she’s in this egregiously giant office again. The principal of Eastwood’s Elementary School glances between Myra and her son as though trying to gauge either reaction.

She almost tells him it’s useless; Tommy’s poker face is so well-honed that even she can’t read what he’s thinking. “I know, Mrs. Brown, that this must be frustrating. I know your family has been through some tough times…but I can’t keep ignoring what’s happening here.” He leans in, musky cologne assaulting Myra’s senses. “Thomas just can’t keep up. He can barely read, even though he’s already in the third grade. And instead of making progress, he’s getting lost outside collecting weeds. Listen—"

“Hold on, sir. He only wanders off like that when people aren't patient with him, when he's overwhelmed. My son’s always been a hardworking kid."

"That's not always enough, ma'am. And we can't have him weighing down the other students or teachers. I’m sorry, but the asministration’s decision is final.”

Anger—sharp and vitriolic—burns up her chest as she stands. "I’ve put every paycheck I have towards this school because you said my son would get the resources he needs. Now you're saying you can't do what you promised?"

“Sit down, please. Raising your voice won’t change anything, Mrs. Brown."

“I’m not raising my voice, you piece of—”

Tommy cuts her off with a tug at her sleeve. His poker-face is still perfectly in place, but the dandelions in his palm are crumpled, broken apart into tufts. “Can we just go home, Mom? Please…” 

All the anger that’d filled her chest deflates in an instant. “Yes, baby.” She reaches down to hold his hand. Sends a withering look the principal’s way. “I’m sorry. Let’s go home.” 

They leave the office quietly. Tommy doesn’t say a word through dinner, instead busying himself with one of his old class readings. His finger tracks each word carefully as Myra makes a list of new schools, estimating how far from work they are and which schedules align with hers. Tommy asks if he could leave the table and Myra nods (if she’s working the morning shift, who would watch her son until nine? Then again, the school day would last until four-thirty…)

Someone’s sniffling in the other room. 

“Tommy, you okay?” Myra’s pushing her son’s bedroom door open to find him sitting knees-to- chest, wiping furiously at his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart…”

“I don’t get it, Mom. What’s wrong with me?” Torn pages litter the ground around him. “Why can’t I do this?”

Thomas raked a hand through his dark curls from his crisscross position on the floor. Myra caught what he whispered underneath his breath, “It’s a crib, not a rocket ship. Jesus Christ.” 

Myra grinned from her chair beside him. “That’s how they make money, you know. By making it so complicated you need to pay them to make it for you.”

He wasn’t laughing, gaze still trained on the little book in his lap, fingers pale with how tightly he clutched the pages. Myra leaned down (as far as she could with her six-month pregnant stomach) to place her hand on his. “Tom, what’s going on? It’s just a crib.”

“But it’s not. God, how am I gonna to be the father our son deserves if I can’t even follow simple instructions—”

Myra silenced him by drawing his hand to her stomach. “Hey…we’re both lucky to have you. And not because you can build a crib, but because you’re you—the kind of father who spends three hours on his knees setting up his kid’s room. Now, how can I help?” 

Thomas pressed his head against her knee with a sigh. “It’s just… the words keep movin’—it’s hard for me to follow the steps…”

 “Okay. Why don’t you build, and I’ll read? You know how much I like ordering you around.” 

She reached down to take the manual as Thomas pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Thank you.” 

“Of course, baby.”

They were done in less than an hour.  

“Tommy, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. Okay?” She sits on the floor beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. “You know, your Dad struggled with reading too. He said the letters came alive sometimes, movin’ around just to mess with him.” Myra reaches behind her son to grab one of his favorite stories about a little prince. “So why don’t we read slowly to keep the letters in place? We’ll go one word at a time and when you want to stop, we’ll go huntin' for those weeds of yours. How’s that sound?”

Tommy sniffles. “Can we start where he meets the fox?”

“Of course, baby.”

***

Myra glances at the car dashboard—11:45 p.m.; maybe if she drove quickly and took the highway, she could make it before midnight. 11:52 p.m. There’s an accident on the road. She changes route. 11:57 p.m. Myra’s pulling into their driveway and grabbing flowers from the front seat. 11:58 p.m. She’s right on time. She’ll just set the roses up…12:00 a.m.

The roses lie a mess on the floor, framed by shards of her finest vase. Happy anniversary, Thomas.  

“Hey, I heard a crash, what—” Thirteen-year-old Tommy appears at the top of the stairwell, clad in sweatpants and his father’s worn Metallica T-shirt. His dark hair’s ruffled as though he’d just clambered out of bed. Guilt flashes through her chest and she quickly starts picking up glass. “Mom, let me get a broom—you’re gonna hurt yourself.” She can hear him rushing down the stairs.

“It’s fine, Tommy. I’ll just clean this up, it’ll—” she hisses and looks down at her bleeding hand, “just take a second.”

“Shit, Mom. I just said to—” 

 “Language.” 

“Just…go sit down, please.” Tommy wraps an arm around her shoulders, guiding her to the couch. “I’ll grab the first-aid kit.”

He comes back with gauze and a bandage, a puzzled look on his face. His hands are gentle but clumsy against her cut finger. “Wait, what are we celebrating?”

Her vision’s clouding. She wishes she'd picked up the roses from where they lay abandoned. “Nothing, baby. Just an old tradition I’ve kept up with.”

“Really?” Tommy’s hazel eyes, so reminiscent of his father’s, make her heart ache. “What do roses have to do with Dad?”

Everything. Myra’s mortified and shaking and overreacting (they’re just flowers, he’s still gone, they're just flowers), and amidst it all she misses him so much it hurts to breathe.

“Mom! Mom, listen to my voice. We’re talking about flowers, right? Did I ever tell you why I collected dandelions when I was little?” She shakes her head; struggles to pay attention to her boy rather than the snake wrapping around her throat. “I don’t know if you remember, but there’s a book I have in my room, one I got when you were teaching me how to read?” Myra nodded, slowly catching her breath.

"It's about this little girl who fell in love with roses. She’d seen them once in her neighbor’s yard and wanted some of her own. So, this girl spent months tending to her garden until it was perfect. But one night, when she fell asleep—a storm came and tore her flowers apart. She was heartbroken. She refused to look at the damage for weeks, until one day, she found a white fuzzy thing in her hair.” Myra’s leaning against Tommy’s shoulder; exhausted but her mind is, for once, quiet. “And when she looked back at her garden, she found a field of dandelions where her roses used to be."

Myra laughs softly, wiping her eyes. “I didn’t see that one coming.” 

“I don’t think anybody does, Mom. Sometimes our flowers become a garden of weeds and there’s nothing we can do about it. And that’s okay—just ‘cause something’s different, doesn’t mean it’s gone. It’s just that—different.”

Myra kisses Tommy’s cheek. “You think we can manage different?”

“I think we’ve been doing different pretty well.” He smiles, dimples flashing, and pulls out a crumpled dandelion from his pajama pocket. “Here, this one’s for you.” 

When Myra pulls their son close to her heart, she’s as light as a dandelion seed.