I ripped a dandelion angrily from my hair. Maybe I wasn't angry, but afraid. Maybe I wasn't afraid, but disgusted, revolted, by its soft and bulbous death. It was like a bug hidden in my hair. It was like you hiding from me--the hasty, justifiable deaths of growing things.
My son had given me the dandelion in the morning and I'd popped it into my ponytail. With one kid on each hand we'd strolled into some sunny farmer's market. When I took my hair down it surfaced, something once alive now so grotesquely dead--grotesque mostly in its obviousness. It was with me, it was happening the whole time.