Among my companions of root and bud, amid each green leaf and delicate petal, there are dancing birds. It is as if the chirps, the wind, swishing of the branches and the subtle movements of flora are their melody, the song of the garden for those like me, who listen with more than their ears.
My mother works as a laundrywoman for the richest man in the barrio, an old spanish nobleman - I tag along just to spend her shifts gawking at his garden. I can never see the flowers too many times, I can never tire of their sweet fragrance. The roses were supposedly the jewel of his garden, or at least that’s what everyone else tells me; on the other hand I’ve always been more fond of the dandelions. Everyone refers to dandelions as weeds, except for me. For me, they are the golden gifts of sunshine to humanity - the humble dandelion is the gold amid the green, they give me energy and hope.
When the dandelions started to bloom I was gleaming for days, always waiting for the next time they called my mother over. My mother suggests picking a few and taking them home so I could have them around even outside the nobleman’s garden plus it would save me a lot of hassle and time since I always pass by the nobleman’s house to take a peek, and quick glance at the yellow flowers from the gaps of the fence. I’ve never once plucked a single petal or leaf from the garden, I strongly believe that no one is in the position to ever do so. I am in love with these little rays of sunshine, why in the world would I kill them just to remove inconvenience from myself?
One day, on my daily detour to check up on the dandelions I notice that they are gone and nowhere to be seen in the garden. I scan the whole lot and they’re completely gone, my eyes widen and I gasp at the sight, where could they be? On the other side of the fence, I see the rich nobleman just standing and gazing at the rose bush. The aristocrat then catches my eye, I take a moment to look at him, he waves and offers me a reassuring smile, then invites me inside.
A big bundle of tiny sunshines wrapped in a bouquet, he thrusts them into my arms with an unconvincing bow and a light smirk on his lips. I hold the flowers on my fingertips so that it would not touch my palms, the stems were wet and I felt the dampness through the paper material wrapped around the golden gift. I physically felt my heart go numb. This flower, while reaching for the sky was basically a corpse. It’s dead. It’s certainly not alive, not without its roots, I can imagine soon enough it’s brightness would fade sooner than daylight. It’s once beautiful petals slowly curling at the edges from the humidity, it’s stalks already a little bit limp. I hold it up, it’s head falls with gravity towards the ground.
“Do you like it? I see you pass by every morning and you spend hours just staring at them.” He asks, I inwardly curse alas I am unable to express how I truly feel about this gesture. With all the mock-up happiness I could muster with my teary eyes and broken heart, I shoot him a smile and thank him.