Stop and Blow the Dandelions

Written by ananya bhalla

“I'm Ananya Bhalla, a first-year biology student and Polymathic Scholar, who's fallen in love with intersectionality. When I was little, I told my parents I'd never do anything in STEM; to my six-year-old brain, science was about diagrams and formulas and convoluted processes...not people. And I couldn't have been more wrong. From Isaac Newton's date with an apple to Alexander Fleming's terrible lab safety, science--if you look deep enough--is just a collection of stories that we're forever piecing together.

This story is about the energy transformation of grief and the quantum mechanics of being human.

 I hope it makes you smile.”

“Recent studies in physics, such as those conducted by researchers at the University of

California, Berkeley, have explored the concept of quantum entanglement—the phenomenon

where particles become interconnected in such a way that the state of one particle

instantaneously influences the state of another, regardless of the distance between them. This

principle, known as non-locality, suggests that the universe operates on a level of

interconnectedness that transcends classical notions of space and time.”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Her head feels fuzzy. Is she imagining the faceless blue figures hovering

above her? “Dealing with some unexpected bleeding here...” Some shuffling. A hand on her

arm. “Nurse, grab blood products and suction. Someone get the husband.” Husband? Oh yes,

he’s supposed to be here. She can’t bring herself to remember where he is—and lets herself fade

back into black.

Myra met the love of her life in the middle of hurricane season. She’d had a whirlwind of a

week—characterized by fourteen-hour ER shifts and four-hour sleep—and was now ushering

people into the clinic as a storm wreaked havoc on poorly-built infrastructure. Power had gone

out around the city; there were so many families from flood-zones that faces blurred together.

“Come in ma’am, find a seat...it’s okay, sweetheart, we’ll take care of that broken ankle... please

don’t worry about the money sir, this is a free service...”

The cacophony of crying, sniffling, and whispering was overwhelming.

Too many children needed her attention, too many families needed support, and she was one of

few volunteers –someone’s hand appeared on her shoulder. “Hey, miss, how can I help? I’ve got

basic life support and first-aid training.”

Myra took in the man’s soaked clothes, messy brown curls, sluggishly bleeding laceration on his

left cheek—and nodded. “There’s this little girl I just talked to, if you could set her ankle...and

take this kit, I think the dad cut his arm...”

“No husband? Then start the ligation. Note that her physician had to act as a healthcare proxy.”

He moved as well as any medic; efficient and gentle. She gave him a grateful smile whenever

they crossed paths. Thunder roared outside.

Beep. “Bleeding’s slowing—I think we have a chance to save the baby.” Beep.

Finally, finally, the storm abated. Police officers and EMS were soon at the door, taking people

home and others to the city hospital. Myra caught the man just as he was about to leave. “Hey,

hold on a second...did you get any attention on that cut?”

He gave her a sheepish smile, dimples flashing (she blamed the butterflies in her stomach on

exhaustion). “Y’all seemed to have enough on your plate.”

“Nonsense. Come here.” Myra sat him down on the entrance steps before wiping the wound

with an alcohol pad. “Thank you, by the way. It would’ve been a much harder night without your

help.” She carefully tilted his head to the side to place the bandage. “What was your name?”

“Thomas Brown.” He glanced down at her ID and held out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you,

Myra.”

The anesthesia is wearing off; the ache in her stomach is so sharp she can barely breathe. “It’s

okay, darling. You can go back to sleep in a minute—we just wanted to introduce you to your

son.”

Myra can hear him already, wailing like his life depends on it. The nurse puts him in her arms

and God, he’s so small...but he’s there. He’s alive and safe and Myra didn’t want his first

memory to be of her crying but she can’t help herself...

“Nice to meet you, Tommy.”

***

Myra can’t believe she’s in this egregiously giant office again. The principal of Eastwood’s

Elementary School glances between Myra and her son as though trying to gauge either reaction.

She almost tells him it’s useless; Tommy’s poker face is so well-honed that even she can’t read

what he’s thinking. Myra has, unfortunately, always been an open-book. “I know, Mrs. Brown,

that this must be frustrating. I know your family has been through some tough times...but I can’t

keep ignoring what’s happening here.” He leans in, musky cologne assaulting Myra’s senses.

“Your son just can’t keep up. He can barely read, even though he’s already in the third grade.

He’s fallen so behind that I just don’t think we can, in good conscience, let him continue here.”

“With all due respect, sir, this is a private school. I’m paying for the best teachers in the city—”

“Listen, if your son would rather collect weeds instead of work with his teachers—”

“No, you listen. I’ve put every paycheck I have towards this school because you promised that

my son would get the help he needs—”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, Mrs. Brown—”

“I’m not raising my voice, you—”

Tommy cuts her off with a tug at her sleeve. His poker-face is still perfectly in place, but the

dandelions in his hand are crumpled, broken apart into tufts. “Can we just go home, Mom?

Please...”

All the anger that’d filled her chest deflates in an instant. “Sorry, baby.” She reaches down to

hold his hand. “I’m sorry. Let’s go home.”

They leave the office quietly. Tommy doesn’t say a word through dinner, instead busying himself

with one of his class readings. His finger tracks each word carefully as Myra makes a list of new

schools, estimating how far from work they are and which schedules align with hers. Tommy

asks if he could leave the table and Myra nods (if she’s working the morning shift, who would

watch her son until nine? Then again, the school day would last until four-thirty...)

Someone’s sniffling in the other room.

“Tommy, you okay?” Myra’s pushing her son’s bedroom door open to find him sitting knees-to-

chest, wiping furiously at his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart...”

“I don’t get it, Mom. What’s wrong with me?” Torn pages litter the ground around him. “Why

can’t I do this?”

Thomas raked a hand through his hair from his crisscross position on the floor. Myra caught

what he whispered underneath his breath, “Why would they make an instruction manual so

damn difficult? It’s a crib, not a rocket ship.”

Myra grinned from her chair beside him. “That’s how they make money, by making it so

complicated you need to pay them to make it for you.”

He wasn’t laughing, gaze still trained on the little book in his lap. His fingers gripped his hair so

tightly that Myra leaned down (as far as she could with her seven-month pregnant stomach) to

place her hand on his. “Tom, what’s going on? It’s just a crib.”

“But it’s not. Jesus, how am I going to be the father our son deserves if I can’t even—”

Myra silenced him by drawing his hand to her stomach. “Hey...he’s so lucky to have you as his

father. And not because you can set up some crib, but because you’re you—the kind of father who

spends three hours on his knees setting up his kid’s room. Now, how can I help?”

Thomas presses his head against her knee with a sigh. “It’s just... the words are so tightly

packed—it’s hard for me to follow the steps...”

“Okay. Why don’t you build, and I’ll read? You know how much I like ordering you around.”

She reached down to take the manual as Thomas pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Thank you.”

They were done in less than an hour.

“Tommy, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. Okay?” She sits on the floor beside him,

shoulder-to-shoulder. “That man doesn’t know how hard you’re working. It’s not your fault that

those teachers won’t do their job.” Myra reaches behind her son to grab one of his favorite

stories about a little prince. “Why don’t we read together? I’ll read one line, you read the other.

We’ll go one word at a time and when you want to stop, we’ll go hunting for dandelions to

replace the ones from earlier. How’s that sound?”

Tommy sniffles. “Can we start where he meets the fox?”

“Of course, baby.”

***

Myra glances at the car dashboard—11:45 p.m.; maybe if she drove quickly and took the

highway, she could make it before midnight. 11:52 p.m. There’s an accident on the road. She

changes route. 11:57 p.m. Myra’s pulling into their driveway and grabbing flowers from the front

seat. 11:58 p.m. She’s right on time. She’ll just set the roses up...12:00 a.m. The roses lie a mess

on the floor, framed by shards of her finest vase. Happy birthday, Thomas.

“Hey, I heard a crash, what—” Tommy appears at the top of the stairwell, clad in sweatpants and

a T-shirt of one of his favorite bands. His dark hair’s ruffled as though he’d just clambered out of

bed. Guilt flashes through her chest and she quickly starts picking up glass. “Mom, let me get a

broom—you’re gonna hurt yourself.” She can hear him rushing down the stairs.

“It’s fine, Tommy. I’ll just clean this up and we’ll celebrate—” she hisses and looks down at her

bleeding hand, “your father’s birthday.”

“Crap, Mom, what did I say?”

“Language.”

“Just...go sit down for a second, please.” Tommy wraps an arm around her shoulders, guiding

her to the table. “I’ll grab the first-aid kit and then clean this up.”

Myra takes a seat as he reaches up to the refrigerator top (when had her son gotten so tall?). He

comes back with gauze and a bandage, a puzzled look on his face. “Mom, did you say we were

celebrating Dad’s birthday? We haven’t done that in years...” She doesn’t meet Tommy’s gaze as

he trails off. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you were still doing it?”

She shrugs as her son cleans the blood off her palm. “It’s been sixteen years, Tommy. Just

because I can’t move on, doesn’t mean I should hold you back.”

“I’m not moving on either, Mom! Every time I ask about him, you shut me down like I’m better

off not knowing who my dad was.” His fingers are clumsy on hers, pressing the gauze too hard

against her skin. “We can celebrate him together and still live our lives. I think he’d prefer that

more than fake roses, anyway.”

Myra wipes tears from her eyes and laughs. “God, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry tonight.”

“Then tell me a happy story.”

“A story?” Myra glared up at Thomas from her place on his chest. “We’ve got a wedding

coming up in two days and you want me to tell stories? Why don’t we go recheck—”

“We’ve barely seen each other in weeks. No one else’s up right now—so why don’t we just hang

out here for a little while? You can’t tell me this place isn’t perfect for a midnight story...” He

gestured to the cabin’s fire-lit hearth and mounted deer-antlers. “And a little redneck, but hey,

gotta honor the Texan roots somehow.”

She groaned and hid her face against him. “You don’t like it. I knew I shouldn’t have listened to

my sister...”

“Hey, don’t do that. I love how much thought you put into this place and in our wedding.”

Thomas moved to sit up, and Myra raised her head to let him. “Seriously...you’re incredible. I

don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone who works as hard as you to make sure everything is perfect.”

She blushed. “You’ve already landed a ring on my finger Romeo, there’s no need for the lies...”

“You know what, why don’t I tell you a story? Something my mother told me when I was

younger...”

“Oh, Tom—we have to get up early tomorrow morning...”

“Just—just give me one minute. Then we’ll sleep, I promise.” Myra nodded, leaning into his

shoulder. “There was this little girl who fell in love with roses. She’d seen them once in her

neighbor’s yard and knew she wanted some of her own. So, this girl spent months tendin’to her

flowers until they were perfect. But one night, when she fell asleep—a storm came and tore her

garden apart. She was devastated. She refused to look at her destroyed work for weeks, until one

day, she found a white fuzzy thing in her hair. When she looked back at her garden, she found a

field of dandelions where her roses used to be.”

Myra shoved him playfully back down onto the pillows. “So, what’s the lesson here? We should

be happy when life replaces our roses with weeds?”

“I think the meaning’s more like...things don’t last forever. We’ll change, our lives will change—

and as much as we strive to make sure everything is perfect, sometimes we’ll be stuck with a

garden of weeds instead of flowers. And that’s okay—just ‘cause something’s different, doesn’t

mean it’s destroyed.”

“I’m sorry, is there something wrong? Did I...”

“Everything’s perfect, darling—but we’re starting something new, and things may not be like this

forever. But if there’s anyone that can make something beautiful from a field of weeds, it’s you.”

“...thank you for that very sweet and cryptic compliment. But Tom, can we please sleep now?”

He laughed and Myra let him bring her back close to his heart. “Yeah, darlin’. Let’s go back to

bed.”

When Myra drifts off to sleep, she’s as light as a dandelion seed.