Puffballs Up High

Puffballs from a dandelion where a wish was never made glide aimlessly in a field. They brush past and latch onto each other. Some break apart at the slightest change in the usual pattern of the winds that flows through this empty meadow. Others brave through the onslaughts of upset air whipping past them, giving them wounds that they will look back on and remember as proof that they made it, not just because they were strong but because they had someone who loved them who was as well. A child enters the scene, bright red rain boots on, splattered with water that may look like blood to the untrained mind and eye. It had just rained an hour before, and the child was growing tired of playing with puddles and getting yelled at by drenched adults. They see the puffballs not as a promise of new life and new wishes, but instead as a challenge. They clap their hands around the pair closest to them. The child thinks they have gotten both puffballs until they see one of them float up and away. They unlock their joined hands. Nothing is to be found of the other half of the pair, except slight wisps of white that stick a bit too well onto the child’s hands.

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