Helen G. Scott Prize for Creative Writing in Fiction
I walked through the night towards the train station. Everything was quiet out there. Everything was lovely out there. Everything out there embraced me, loved me without breaking the boundaries, painted pictures that stayed inside the lines, kept their hands on my arms and face. Everything out there understood me because there was no mind for thinking and no heart for feeling among the trees. Out there, no one could hurt me.
I waited for the train among the flickering lights. They went on and off and on and off, but at least I knew that the ones at home would be steady.
Steady.
Love wasn’t hard to say when it was a dandelion. All I had to do was make a wish and blow at the wisps and everything would come true. Everything would be okay. All I had to do was watch those little puffs kiss the arms and ears of someone on the other side of the field. Then they’d know. They’d understand.
But, when love was simply a flower petal, then I knew it was too fragile to keep. I could pull and pull at it in hopes to pluck it from the center, but it would always tear. It would never float far on the wind. It could be colorful and soft and lovely, but it could never be strong. Not for me at least. No, flower petals were too showy. They were too perfect. They created too much beauty, and I could never make myself love them.
But a dandelion? A dandelion didn’t need to be touched to fly on the wind. A dandelion didn’t need to be pulled at and broken to be free. When the train came, I could see it. See how the wind picked up and threw my hair in the air. It was an opportunity, something to take me far. That train would take a path so set into time, a path I could jump on and off of, and eventually I would reach it. I would reach where I was meant to go.
So I stepped on that train, and it took me home.