field of steel-blue suds.
Bertha chugs up the driveway and as Agatha slams the door of the truck, she screeches, âCornelia! Look!â
She rushes into the kitchen and grabs my wet arm, pulling me out the door and into the yard. White fluff swirls all around me.
âI bet you never saw anything like this!â she says. âIâll give you three guesses what it is, and itâs
not
snow!â She holds up her fingers and catches the cotton wisps that drift past. I walk out into the middle of the lawn and look straight into the white softness. The fluff looks like large airy snowflakes. I reach for one and hold it in the palm of my hand. âM-m-milkweed?â We raised monarch butterflies in science once.
âNo,â she says, laughing and spinning around and around. Her braid unropes itself from its pins and flies behind her. âTheyâre dandelions. Theyâre sending off their seed, becominâ something new. This is a lucky day, Cornelia.â
She leaps into the air, reaching high for the fluff sailing past, catches some, and tosses it out again. The flour white softens everything and begins to smudge the wrinkles on her face. She springs higher and higher as the wind picks up and sends the wisps heavenward. Even I canât help but smile.
I walk deeper into the gentle flurry. Very slowly, I begin to twirl around, first one way and then the other. I raise my arms, reaching up and pulling pieces of fluff into my hands. I breathe deeply and twirl faster, faster, and as Iâm twirling, Iâm laughing.
For just a moment, I want to rush into the house and fling on my black Salvation Army dress and dance back through the white softness. And I wouldnât give a hoot about the meanness of anything.
29
âYou can eat them, you know,â my aunt says that night as she peels a potato at the kitchen table. âDandelions, I mean.â
âThe fluff?â
âNo,â she says, laughing so hard she has to put the potato down. âYou really arenât from around here, are you? You eat the leaves. Sauté them up with garlic, toss them in a salad. Either way, theyâre out of this world.â
âY-y-youâd eat anything, wouldnât you?â
She picks up her potato again and starts peeling.
âYou get hungry enough, you eat just about anything. Except for coffee. Rot your stomach out, that will.â
30
The temperature soars and my aunt and I begin fighting over the chores, the food, the mess, my reading, the lack of coffee in the house. We slam doors and storm outside. She snaps at my cleaning; I yell at her mess. We fume at each other like two chickens in the same sweltering roost.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead and sweep the cobwebs off the beams overhead. I wash down the walls, and while Iâm at it, I try to make sense of my life. There is no music in this house, other than the birds outside; no radio, no television. I have nothing to distract me. What now, what now, what now? I ask over and over as I wash the refrigerator, sweep the floor, scrub the stairs, wash the windows.
I slam the cupboard door and run outside when I find little brown pellets at the back of the cupboard.
Agatha kneels beside her squash plants, checking for bugs.
âThereâs m-m-m-mouse poop in there,â I say when I reach her.
She looks up at me. âSet some traps.â
âI c-c-canât believe you live in such a m-m-m-mess,â I yell, kicking the pumpkin plant in the row next to her, tearing half of it out of the ground. I run up to the fields above the house, sinking into the grass that now reaches to my thighs, screaming until my head aches. All I want is a life that is tidy, where the edges are hemmed and straight and the corners are tucked and tight as new cotton sheets.
31
Agatha whacks her moccasins against the side of the fireplace when I walk back into the house. Caked mud flies off the old leather and onto the floor.
Bertha chugs up the driveway and as Agatha slams the door of the truck, she screeches, âCornelia! Look!â
She rushes into the kitchen and grabs my wet arm, pulling me out the door and into the yard. White fluff swirls all around me.
âI bet you never saw anything like this!â she says. âIâll give you three guesses what it is, and itâs
not
snow!â She holds up her fingers and catches the cotton wisps that drift past. I walk out into the middle of the lawn and look straight into the white softness. The fluff looks like large airy snowflakes. I reach for one and hold it in the palm of my hand. âM-m-milkweed?â We raised monarch butterflies in science once.
âNo,â she says, laughing and spinning around and around. Her braid unropes itself from its pins and flies behind her. âTheyâre dandelions. Theyâre sending off their seed, becominâ something new. This is a lucky day, Cornelia.â
She leaps into the air, reaching high for the fluff sailing past, catches some, and tosses it out again. The flour white softens everything and begins to smudge the wrinkles on her face. She springs higher and higher as the wind picks up and sends the wisps heavenward. Even I canât help but smile.
I walk deeper into the gentle flurry. Very slowly, I begin to twirl around, first one way and then the other. I raise my arms, reaching up and pulling pieces of fluff into my hands. I breathe deeply and twirl faster, faster, and as Iâm twirling, Iâm laughing.
For just a moment, I want to rush into the house and fling on my black Salvation Army dress and dance back through the white softness. And I wouldnât give a hoot about the meanness of anything.
29
âYou can eat them, you know,â my aunt says that night as she peels a potato at the kitchen table. âDandelions, I mean.â
âThe fluff?â
âNo,â she says, laughing so hard she has to put the potato down. âYou really arenât from around here, are you? You eat the leaves. Sauté them up with garlic, toss them in a salad. Either way, theyâre out of this world.â
âY-y-youâd eat anything, wouldnât you?â
She picks up her potato again and starts peeling.
âYou get hungry enough, you eat just about anything. Except for coffee. Rot your stomach out, that will.â
30
The temperature soars and my aunt and I begin fighting over the chores, the food, the mess, my reading, the lack of coffee in the house. We slam doors and storm outside. She snaps at my cleaning; I yell at her mess. We fume at each other like two chickens in the same sweltering roost.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead and sweep the cobwebs off the beams overhead. I wash down the walls, and while Iâm at it, I try to make sense of my life. There is no music in this house, other than the birds outside; no radio, no television. I have nothing to distract me. What now, what now, what now? I ask over and over as I wash the refrigerator, sweep the floor, scrub the stairs, wash the windows.
I slam the cupboard door and run outside when I find little brown pellets at the back of the cupboard.
Agatha kneels beside her squash plants, checking for bugs.
âThereâs m-m-m-mouse poop in there,â I say when I reach her.
She looks up at me. âSet some traps.â
âI c-c-canât believe you live in such a m-m-m-mess,â I yell, kicking the pumpkin plant in the row next to her, tearing half of it out of the ground. I run up to the fields above the house, sinking into the grass that now reaches to my thighs, screaming until my head aches. All I want is a life that is tidy, where the edges are hemmed and straight and the corners are tucked and tight as new cotton sheets.
31
Agatha whacks her moccasins against the side of the fireplace when I walk back into the house. Caked mud flies off the old leather and onto the floor.