Once Upon A Dandelion Dream

The weeds grow up between the cracks in the paving stones. They are not pretty, aesthetically pleasing cobblestones that could stand a little moss. They are not herringbone brick or crunchy gravel to be offended by the presence of these common interlopers. They are concrete slabs and thus so plain, such eyesores in their own right, that they seem to invite the dandelions and grass to cover them. The pond liner was punctured years ago, and now the once watery hollows are filled with a damp, brown sludge. The pots are all growing thistles. String keeps the door shut on the shed.

I make temporary spaces for myself. Hang a macrame hammock between the overgrown apple trees dripping their unripe fruit on the lawn. Replant supermarket herbs in unwanted pots. I put a BBQ on the concrete slabs. All the while, I tell myself, “This is not how it was supposed to go, and so what’s the point?” Yet, I can’t seem to help myself. I need something in all this nothing. If there’s a hell, surely it’s being stuck in limbo. Wondering what the fuck is the point of getting out of bed when nothing turned out the way you hoped. I weed the cobblestones. Mend the door on the greenhouse. I dig out the pond and scatter wildflower seeds on the lawn.

I take my grieving outside to where the chaffinches bicker with the sparrows in the plum tree. The crows, loud in their glossy black robes, adjudicate from the safety of a telephone pole behind the fence. In the overgrown beds, red and pink poppies dart up from amongst the larkspur. Bees buzz around the peonies, and the honeysuckle springs sweet, white flowers. Somehow, I think, in all this aliveness, it must be possible to mediate my sadness. It must be possible to find a new way home.