I plant mint in the courtyard. Ivy along the fence, though my mother would insist it should be lavender. I even pull weeds, every once in a while. When I want to pretend that nothing can hurt us, and just sit on the cobbles covered in leaves. With city dirt down my cheeks, believing in everything.
The doctors tell my mom, for the rest of your life.
How long is the rest of my life?
But I was too damn childishly nostalgic to pull the dandelions. The wish-flower weeds all over my courtyard. I want all the wishes, even at my age. Perhaps I have grown up, because I call them prayers now. Because I offer them up from the snow just the same. And from twenty miles over the speed limit. And row 28B. And a million other places where wishes don’t grow wild. But for years I prayed through those funny little flowers blowing in the wind, with my hair all a mess, barefoot or something and they never judged me, and so I let them be.
They say, six to nine.
She is waiting for them to say years.
They say, six to nine months.
My mother laughs. Thank you for sharing. I'm running a marathon after that.
That was ten months ago. My mother is very good at not listening.
I finally ask her, why didn't you tell me?
Because it was never true.
So my courtyard is filled with practical things. Ivy by the fence. Mint for my garden. And dandelion seeds.
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