Whisper to a Dandelion

I remember my grandmother faintly, not unlike fragmented moments from a dream that one may try to cling to and recall upon suddenly waking up.  It’s the minute things that hang in the midst of my memory. If I close my eyes in search of her, it always takes me back to the garden.

I remember the feeling of her wrinkled hand holding mine. I have no recollection of her voice but remember it telling me stories as we sat on the white bench with carved-out lilies. Her garden was where we fed pigeons with breadcrumbs, where she told me that the rustling of the leaves was actually trees and bushes whispering secrets to one another. Sharing secrets and stories. She told me dandelions carried our wishes to the skies, and bellflowers were used by the garden fairies as hats.

One evening I overheard my mother crying, one word burned itself into my memory. Fire. In that moment I thought, surely the fairies would have worked their magic, or the leaves would have spread their whispers to the wind to put the flames out. Granny had made her way out, but the smoke had taken its toll. She passed away on the way to the hospital.

I remember curling up under the immense weight of confusion, sadness and grief.

She was gone. Yet her love seemed to linger, engulfing me like a warm blanket on cold nights. Each time I closed my eyes to enjoy the smell of flowers or lie on fresh grass. Echoes of her memory soothed me.

Now I sit in my own little sanctuary, my garden, watching her great-grandchildren play. They know her stories and relish in the little gifts of nature in full bloom.

I whisper to a dandelion. Although I do not make a wish. Just two simple words. And I hope that the wind carries them up into the skies, to her.

“Thank you.”