Dandelions always remind me of my mother. It’s not just because yellow was her favorite color. The dandelion was a symbol of her cross-cultural learnings.

She grew up in Bangkok surrounded by a stunning array of wildly colored tropical flowers and plants of all sorts. In the 1950s, she had earned a fellowship to study nursing in England. It would be her first time spending an extended period of time away from home and her very large family.

London was a world away and homesickness bubbled under the surface. One drab spring day, she saw a blazing  yellow beacon in the grass — a floral reminder of home.  She bent down and promptly turned it into a boutonniere. She walked along near Russell Square with a smile as bright as the dandelion in her jacket lapel.

“Excuse me ma’am,” a bobby  said with a little smile. “Do you know you’re wearing a weed?”

“A weed?” mom asked.

“A weed,” he said.

Mom just smiled and said:  “It’s beautiful no matter what it’s called.”

Can’t argue with that.

Dandelion in the sun.
Bright rays and curls of a dandelion in the sun.





4 thoughts on “The dandelion’s tale

  1. Poor misunderstood dandelion. As they remind you of your mother, they remind me of my father. He waged a personal crusade against them. I, on the other hand, view them as a welcome spot of color.

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