What her eyes could see. chapter 2

Thursday at recess, I climbed to the top of the swirl slide and plopped down on the rain-sheltering ceiling of green and red. Never one to keep still, my fidgety legs thumped periodically upon the shiny metal as my eyes scanned the weed-filled play ground. The boys were all playing kickball, the sport of the day, using rather rough pieces of painted wood slabs for bases. I saw Jim Bennet, VIP in the little leagues, slide home in a cloud of dust, much to the cheering of his comrades; a moment later I could see all of him, his entire body covered in filth. My eyes caught other things of interest. Some of the girlie-girls (as I called them) were double-dutching under the old Jasper Elementary elm, jumping and giggling and hiking up their skirts in a rather undignified fashion. Loners were scattered about watching everyone else with serious, almost loathsome eyes, hating the world for whatever reason. As my gaze continued around the outskirts of the playground, I saw pairs of girlfriends perched on seesaws, where I could faintly hear them twitter about birthday parties and boys and makeup. Groups of boys stood conspicuously within shadowed clefts of the school, scheming about whose ponytail would be next pulled or which unlucky fellow would receive a painful wedgie the moment school let out. And then there she was.

I had been slouching against the cool metal as I observed my world, but now I leaned forward. A yellow sundress she wore not but a long brown skirt and a flowing white blouse. The folds of her skirt swept around her skinny legs; then the wind caught it with its fingers and pulled it out behind as a bridal train. Feet bare once again, she stepped feebly, aware of where she was stepping, treading around sharp branch or prickly weed, and yet, also not entirely caring where it was exactly she was going. The sleeves of her shirt draped elegantly from her elbows, its threads of a hue reminiscent of brilliant white clouds on a sunny day. Then again, maybe she was walking along clouds.

What intrigued me most, however, was the floral bouquet fitted securely in her hands: dandelions. Now, I didn’t realize this at first, for the arrangement wasn’t a bundle of gold...it was clear, diaphanous, colorless. All at once I realized the dandelions she had picked were the ones that were all seed, with white fluffy parachute tops to sail upon the wind. Why? I didn’t know, but I decided I would find out. I grasped the edges of the slide and pulled myself forward to slide down, eager to meet her at the far end of the schoolyard where she was.

As soon as my feet hit the woodchips, I bolted, legs churning eagerly. I hurdled over small bushes planted here and there; I barely made it over a kindergartener who was hunched over, diligently perfecting his sidewalk-chalk masterpiece of abstract stick-figures and eleph-igers, kanga-rabbits, and alli-cows. And then---whomp! A few strides away from her, my face was awkwardly and painfully introduced to the ground. Whether or not I had tripped over my own feet and sprawled headlong into the earth I’ll never know. But, spitting out gravel and weed, I lifted my head up to witness a poignant farewell. Both hands, cupped around the dandelion stems, were raised to her lips, and as she exhaled, the tiny pluffs twirled into the air. With a soft, almost inaudible cry, she flung the bouquet heavenward; I lost my breath, not realizing I was holding it until I was aware of dandelion snowflakes landing silently around me. She had spun in a circle, remnants of dandelions dancing from her fingertips and taking a fragile hold on her hair. Grasping her skirt between her fingers, she watched them fly away, swaying slightly, the smile on her face expressing utter delight.

Once again I found myself brushing off my overalls, subconsciously aware of her femininity and my tomboyishness. With a half-hearted smile, I made myself known. “Hi.” And I suddenly found myself shhhhed, a ladylike finger poised upon pursed lips, brows raised urgently at me. For two whole minutes, she forgot me, and then, reaching down into the grass, she picked up a half-blown dandelion puff.

Taking my hand, she placed it in my palm, then, a breathless question. “What do you see?”

I peered at it, then answered matter-of-factly, “A dandelion.”

To my surprise, she shook her head, her sun-gloried hair amiably slapping her face. “No.”

“A flower?”

Another shake of the head.

“An almost dead flower.” Surely that was what she meant.

Her head shake was vigorous this time. And a sigh. “Don‘t you see??”

It was now my turn to shake my head. She plucked it from my hand, pursed her lips and blew, scattering the seeds. Her face was aglow, like a light bulb was hiding behind her eyes and shining through her smile. She bent close to the ground, eye-balling the uneven level of grass blades. The tiny stars of fluff gave the ground a slightly ’first frost’ look. Those brown eyes turned upward to glance at me. “How about now?” A pause.

“It’s a um...half-dead dandelion that....scatters seeds when you blow on it?”

I think my last statement was ignored--or maybe she refused to hear it, because she gushed, “Isn‘t it beautiful?!” Well, of course...if one had a morbid knack for partially dead things. I sure didn’t think it was lovely. Maybe when she blew and they scattered on the wind...that was kinda cool...but...With skepticism burrowing in my chest, I sought her gaze, only to find her watching me with a sly expression; instead of saying what was on her mind (within which something undoubtedly was), she bit her lip and turned away. And then it was too late.

For at that moment, the bell rang for the end of recess.