When I was in university, I had a friend who loved dandelions. Those were her favorite flowers. Okay, technically they're weeds, but why split hairs?
See, she thought roses were overdone and fake. Getting one meant something plastic or a goodbye, and that's always too final. She distrusted anyone who gave them. Carnations were prom and wedding flowers, and everything else was just trite. The dandelion, that little weed, was for her.
She used to tell me dandelions were survivors. Poison them, pull them up by the roots, burn them, cut off their heads to feed to a compost heap, the little fuckers always come back. In that regard, they are relentless. Unbreakable.
It took me years to appreciate that little lesson over a weed. Sometimes, I would give her a dandelion. We would blow seeds to the wind, and I'd joke about wishing for a pony. She showed me a trick, where one puts a dandelion under the chin, and if it glows just right, it means that cat is in love. Folk magic and superstition, maybe, but it's one I sometimes fall for. I can be a sucker.
Back when I still lived in the historical district, within the shadows of the monoliths of downtown of the greater metroplex, at the place I called the Temple of the Jinn, I would have mourning cigarettes, to a cluster of three dandelions. Maiden, Mother, and Crone. One was always seeds, so I with her I made my wishes. That cluster had been there as long as I'd lived in that building. The landlord had tried everything, even napalm, and the little fuckers kept coming back. The observation always made me smile.
Thinking back, there's a lesson there...