Lion's Tooth

From English Daisies that flower through the year to the one Crocus that lives and dies in the same week; from poisonous Lilac whose aroma begs you like a siren to take a bite to the Nasturtium blooms that line my salads in summer; from the David’s Phlox that is her pride and joy to the Sea Thrift that was a stolen gift from my parents, I love this garden. But before I first broke its ground 5 years ago, my favorite flower already ruled this earth. My beloved Dandelion.

I’m not a soldier!

Do not tell him that!

But don’t you care what he’s doing to me?

He’s faithful, he doesn’t beat me and he provides us with a roof over our heads and food on our plate. What do you want, to go back to Dale?

No.

How can you not admire this flower, which blooms persistently in the face of near universal contempt? Entire industries have risen, intent solely on the Dandelion’s demise, legions of futile chemists sent to extinguish a solitary, indestructible flower, like a Persian march against the simoom.

This flower is my childhood.

Can I tell you a secret?

Of course you can, you can tell me anything.

And you won’t tell anyone.

Of course not. I would never tell your secret to anyone.

Not even him?

But I have no secrets from him.

But you said you wouldn’t tell anyone!

I don’t keep secrets from my husband. You know that. But he’s your father now, you can tell him, too. Now tell me your secret. Don’t be silent.

Little lion’s tooth, cursed as weed despite filling our drawers with honey from the bees.

Little lion’s tooth, I whisper my dreams to your seeds and send them on their lonely way.

Little lion’s tooth, you have enticed and enlisted me with your promises of understanding and problems blown-in-the-breeze like pappus.

Little lion’s tooth, betrayed, pulled and poisoned for taking a small corner of our space.

Little lion’s tooth, how can we but not take you for granted?

Little lion’s tooth, with all our abuse, you always smile.

What can you teach me, little lion’s tooth?

We think maybe you should see a psychiatrist.

Why?

Well, you haven’t been very happy. And you’re not being very nice to your step-father.

He hits me.

He doesn’t beat you. Dale is the one who beat you. He used to lock you in the closet. Remember that?

No.

Now don’t be difficult, yes you do remember that. Do you want that again?

No.

Then stop being so glum. It wouldn’t hurt to smile once in a while.

There are creatures of God who surprise me with their ability to survive, and when we allow ourselves to be inspired by that resilience, we call it hope, because to give those creatures credit for their own survival would be to lessen us. And when that resilience angers us we call it stubborn, and those creatures become like weeds.

But the first flower my child ever brought me was a dandelion, and that must mean something, too. And when I taught her to blow the seeds in the wind, I must remember that I was fooled by them both, the hopeful and the stubborn, and it’s hard to tell which was which, the child or the weed.

He's talking more now.

I don’t understand what about. He hardly makes any sense.

At least he’s behaving.

He’s not really behaving, he’s just staying out of our line of vision. It’s a matter of catching him.

My son helped me place the ladder against the eave. The gutter was blocked somewhere along the end. Alex cheered me on, tired of the backed up rainwater dripping onto our heads as we entered the house.

I found the source of the blockage, a large clump of moss, tar and pitch, enveloped in pine needles. And amid this detritus a small tap root, rosette of shiny, hairless leaves spread out to collect water along the grooves of jagged teeth, which the French called Dent de Lion. Lion’s tooth. Dandelion.

“I can’t see anything. We’ll just have to put up with the dripping for now.”

“Some husband you are!”

“I know.”

He’s smiling more now.

He’s always smiled. Even when Dale used to beat him and lock him in the closet, he would cry but he’d always laugh later.

What I mean is he’s smiling too soon. He needs to understand that this is my house.

It’s hard on him, he’s only 10. The doctor said his nightmares mean he wants to protect me.

I would never hurt you.

Maybe you shouldn’t hit him, either.

It’s different with children.

Don’t be angry. I know you’re trying.

Why do you call me a dandelion?

Because that’s what you are.

I am not! I’m a little boy!

Yes, you are that, too.

Then catch me!

I have you!

Again!