Dandelion Fluff

Sam and Willa lay on their backs in the overgrown grass of his yard, her describing the shape of the clouds for him to paint as a picture in his head. 

“Ooh,” she says, taking his hand and raising it in the direction of a cloud. “That one looks as when a bird soars freely across the sea, wind splashing against its wings,” she tells him. 

Sam traces the image across her palm. “Like this?” he asks with a smile whispering on his lips. 

“Yeah,” she giggles. “With eyes closed/ as yours,/ but the world at the tips of its wings,/ it soars into the waves/ with strength like the sun.” 

“Dancing with dandelion fluff,/ it soars,/ rising like a wish/ into the sky,” breathes Sam. 

“As kindness,/ it floats and it travels,/ eventually fading into the brilliance/ peeking from between the mountains,” Willa finishes.  

The two let the words float, rising like the bird they’ve described.

“I wish I could see the world,” Sam whispers. “I wish I could count the stars and map their constellations, wish I could watch buds bloom into buttercups and daisies, wish I could see the sea with its birds and its clouds.  I wish I could see you, and my brother, and my parents, and faces as they begin to laugh.”

Willa stares at him for a moment, feeling the speech hover. She picks a dandelion full of wisps and seeds, handing it to him. “Here,” she says.

As he blows upon it and the fluff rises up towards the clouds, she whispers, “You can.”