I was sitting there in plain sight. The parking lot was empty but for a few abandoned vehicles. It was spring and I could hear birds chirping merrily though the open sunroof above me. The sunshine was slowly thickening the air in the car, making it difficult to breathe. Cars passed by on the road above, their drivers failing to notice that the hillside leading from the pavement to the parking lot was covered in lush green grass and a colourful mixture of purple and yellow weeds. Soon the gardener will come to mow the lawn, shearing off the coloured heads of the flowers and returning the hillside to an appropriate state of monotony.
The young man didn’t see me as he passed. He crossed the parking lot with a bounce in his step. He wore brown dress pants, just the right length, and a black button-down shirt. He looked dressy but in a casual sort of way befitting his years and, most likely, his station in life. He must like his job here at the art gallery the way he walked up the hill toward the front doors of the building. Not trudging up the hill, but walking effortlessly, as if the ground was level.
Then he stopped, bent over, reached to the ground and with his left hand picked something from the grass. I didn’t recognize what it was until he turned and brought it to his lips. He blew gently, and with a faint smile, watched the dandelion seeds carry through the air on the breeze.
April 20, 2010
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