Dandelion

Dandelion

A Short Story

Dean Shearer

Shearer Shorts

Dandelion

It took my sister, and my father, and my brother.

It was late, late winter and spring was in the air, I could smell it, and I could feel it. My brother and sister and I, with our worn boots and our hats and coats and mittens, were walking between the slender pines, which creaked in a slight breeze, sounding like old rocking chairs, or rotting cabin doors. We were going somewhere, anywhere, and I walked in the very front, with the two behind.

My sister—I don’t feel like saying her name—must have been in high school, because she was telling my brother that a guy named Rodney—or was it Roger?—had kissed her in the back of his car, on the lips and all over, and had, the next day, told her over the phone that she was mean and gross and angry all the time, and he said he was moving on and never, ever wanted to kiss her all over in the back of his car again. Can you believe him? Douche, said my sister.

My brother agreed and I agreed, and I told her I’d beat his face in if she’d like, and my brother told me to calm down and forgive and forget, and save my energy and just be happy.

Alright, I said but did not listen, and I walked onward whistling, maybe, or humming something by the Byrds.

That day we did not follow the trail. Why we walked through the close-grown trees and the strands of spiderweb and over the dead trees crossed over one another I do not know. But we did.

We