Petals Rain from the Sky

    “If I were a flower I would be a dandelion.”
    I turn my head and feel the sharp blades of grass scratch at my cheek. She is there beside me, blonde hair twisted against the green foliage, a dandelion dangling from her grasp. The spring wind ruffles through the trees and blows a stray seed from the flower’s white tassels. Her breathy laugh gets caught with it. 
     Esther has always been like this — naive, plainspoken, and admirably trapped in the space between dream and reality. It is up to me to decipher what she means. To translate the words which pass from one world to another. With my eyes, I trace the curve of her nose, lips, and follow until I reach the flower. Still, there are limits to my abilities. Sometimes, I just don’t understand her words.
     “A dandelion?” I say. I watch as her eyes crinkle. 
     “Yes. Because then, when I die, I’ll shed my petals and come back as a million dandelions.” 
     She looks at me, smiling. Her smile irritates me. I want to grab her by her hair, thrash her head around, scream into her face, but I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I turn back and stare at the sky. The clouds are out, full and pink against their evening canvas. 
     “Don’t you think I’d look pretty as a dandelion?” she says. 
     “Yes,” I respond. I don’t think much about my answer and focus more on the clouds and the way they look like little beetles with insect-y claws reaching out to grab something.
     “I think it would be lovely. Oh, how wonderful would it be if I was dandelion seed — no, seeds — floating through the air. I would be able to see hundreds of places at once.” She pauses, as if to let it sink in. As if she truly believes that right in this very moment she will sprout roots and anchor herself to the ground. “Yes. I would like to feel like that when I die—” 
     “If,” I interrupt. 
     There is silence. I know she is looking at me. I can feel her eyes on the side of my head. Then, I hear her say softly, “When.” 
     I curl my fingers into the grass and pull. The blades snap off, fluttering into the wind when I unfold my palm. God, she angers me. Among many other things, Esther is also stubborn. But, so am I. Perhaps that is why we understand each other so well. 
     I sit up on my elbows and glare at her. “Don’t talk about death so easily. It’s disturbing.” 
     Her eyes widen, big and innocent, and I have to remind myself that she is anything but. I turn, until a short snorting sound breaks the silence. Freezing, I whip my head around and there she is, a small hand covering her mouth, desperately trying to suppress the giggle that tumbles out.
     Heat rises to my cheeks. It is a combination of frustration and embarrassment that stains my face. Before I know it, I am on top of her, wrestling with her skinny arms. She laughs the whole time, which only makes me more angry. Oh, if Doctor Anderson could see us now. He would have my head on a stick. 
     “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Esther spurts out. “I won’t laugh anymore, I promise!”
     “Yes, you will!” I shriek. “You always laugh! You think everything is a joke! Why do you always say you’re going to die—you’re not going to die!”
     Her face is all distorted, wiggling in my vision. The tears threaten to fall and I throw myself back so I am on the ground again, staring at the sky. Suddenly, I am exhausted. I want to go home but I can’t ignore the fact that the wind feels good on my face. 
     I hear the grass beside me rustle. “I don’t think death is a joke,” she says. “I’m just not scared of it.” 
     From the corner of my eye I see her sit up, legs folded underneath her arms, head perched on her knees. I think she is looking at a tree but I really don’t know because I am still looking at the sky. 
     “It wouldn’t matter anyway,” she continues. “If I die now or two weeks from now, I still end up in the same place. Might as well make it pretty.”
     I don’t respond. I don’t want to respond.
     “If you were a flower, what would you be?” 
     “I don’t know,” I snap. I wish she would shut up. Sometimes, I don’t want to hear her talk. After a minute goes by I begin to believe that she can read my mind, because I have not heard her say a single thing. 
     I finally look her way and she is in the same position, crouched over, hand deep in the grass to play with the flowers. I can see the pink of her scalp through her hair. It is so thin these days. Esther catches my movement and looks back at me. And here we are, staring at one another. Then, she picks up one of the dandelions and sets it in between us. It is a ball of fur on a stem. A cloud, I think, and I remember the beetles in the sky. 
     “You don’t have to agree with me,” she says. “But, for now, pretend. Pretend that death is okay. That is my wish.” She blows on the dandelion and we both watch as the white fur scatters into the sky. She doesn’t wait for the pollen to clear and stands up.
     “Where are you going?” I say.
     She turns, smiling. “There are more dandelions that way.” Her finger is pointed to the top of the hill. I watch as she spins around, her white dress still wrinkled from sitting, and from down here I think she is so pretty.

---

---