Eighteen Dandelions

I really don’t know how it started.

When I was five years old, my mother began making many trips back and
forth to the hospital. I was too young to understand what was going
on.

That spring, rain awakened the yard in vibrant green. At some point,
my father brought flowers home to my mother. It seemed like a very
noble thing too do, so I put on my rubber boots and ventured into the
expanse that made up my backyard. Atop the spouts of green stood many
bright yellow heads. I filled my little fist with flowers, clenched
them close, and ran back inside. I presented them to my mother with
the same gusto my father had. In a little vase beside my father’s
bouquet, my mother placed the cluster of yellow.

When spring came the following year, I was overjoyed to see my flowers
had returned. Again, I collected a bunch. This time, however, I
brought the single best one I could find to my mother.

I tried to explain to my father that mowing the lawn would ruin my
favourite flower. When the kindergarten teacher asked what my
favourite color was, it was yellow.

Thirteen years have gone by. Each year, without fail, I brought the
single largest dandelion I could find. Each year, she would give me a
big hug, and then give a relieved sigh and say “Now I know that spring
has finally come”

This year I brought her my dandelion, aware of her declining
condition. Three times she was well enough to sit with us for supper;
a fresh flower was present each time. For mothers day I painted the
brightest yellowest dandelion I could, something she could hang at the
end of her bed. She cried when I gave it to her.

Friday, mother came home for her last day. In the little vase I
carried her the eighteenth dandelion. She beamed and wrapped her arms
around me. With weak body, but strong spirit, she blessed me. The
sleepyness soon returned and she closed her eyes. I waited, and then
turned to leave. I was almost out the door when she opened her eyes.
“Jordan, may you follow Jesus all the days of your life” and her voice
trailed off.