Inch Seven: Dandelions

Wednesday, I took a walk.

Not just any old walk, mind you. No, Wednesday I walked home from the office, a distance of about four blocks. It was the first time I'd done that since sometime in 2013.

I'm not even sure when the last time was. There was the behind-the-knee injury in July, then my relapse  started in the fall, limiting my range and energy. Fall was followed by a horrific winter and then a long, chill early spring.

But it is warmer now. And my strength is slowly building as treatment continues. So I walked home.

This wasn't my first walk of 2014. But it was the first walk home, the first walk where I made it to the front door from the office under my own steam. 

I noticed a couple of things right away, walking home. I'm a lot slower, for one thing. And I noticed I was breathing harder on the slight inclines.

It's been a long layoff.

But I noticed some other things too.

Violets.

And tulips opening.

And of course, daffodils.

Trees in full bloom.

And some not yet opened.

And dandelions.

Lots of dandelions.

Warren and I have very different opinions about dandelions. He sees them as the enemy and strives mightily to eradicate every last one of them every summer.

I love dandelions. I love their bold yellow faces. I love to see them splashed across a yard. For me, dandelions are the signature flower of a child's bouquet, always picked too short and held too tightly in a grubby small hand. Stuck in a juice glass or a jelly jar, they never last the night. My children brought dandelion bouquets to me when they were little; my brothers and I brought them to our mother when we were little.

I shared my sentiment with Warren, exclaiming over the dandelion patches I'd seen walking home and how the sight of dandelions lifted my spirits.

"They're fine in everyone else's yards," he said. "Just not mine."

We'll see. Ramona arrives in about four weeks. I think she needs the inexpressible joy of picking a dandelion bouquet and carrying it tightfisted to those she loves.