A dandelion would be sure to pop from somewhere. Any crack. I can remember a stubborn one struggling on in a crack in the parking lot outside my apartment in Price... some days it seemed like the only hope there. And Grace went off to L.A., to a residential, one last desperate hope before a state hospital... and the dandelions grew. She made friends there, they said they wouldn't give up. And yet... she called last night and a dash of weed killer hit my dandelions. She is back in the hospital, and coming home. And there are no more last tries. It's the state hospital or the grave, and I cannot bury my girl. My dandelions are dead, and I'm tired of trying to grow them in chemical stained rocky soil. I cannot make poetry out of a bunch of dead weeds and arms bleeding from nail marks. Someone clawing off their own skin. I'm trying not to think of cleaning your own flesh from under your fingernails and knowing you just dug a little further into your own grave. I'm trying not to think of visiting her always behind hospital walls. This is not the life I thought that little girl with the bluejean eyes would have. I am mourning today for the dandelions, and the little girl I love so much that is broken so badly from things I just dont understand. And I'm trying not to wonder... was any of it my fault? Could I have done something? Said anything? Kept quiet? Went away? Would it change? I am haunted by the ghosts of wishes I will never get to make. My dandelions are dead again today. And the seeds, this time, are blowing away.
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