Crushed

She stared at the dandelion. It was so bright, so beautiful and pure. She couldn’t believe where it was growing. It had plowed through a crack in the concrete. It laid in a bed of grime off of old worker’s boots and pulverized gravel. Somehow that tiny seed had bobbed its way over speeding cars and around the heads of oblivious office goers. It had spiraled through the turbulent air of New York City at rush hour and landed in precisely the right spot where it would have a chance to grow. Just a chance, mind. It was still the unfortunate handful cast by the farmer in that old Sunday school proverb. One in rock, one in good soil. One in the slums and one in the Ritz.

Was it less than the others? No. Perhaps it was more. Perhaps it was invaluable. Unparalleled in strength. Despite the adversity there it was, open to the sun, open to the air and rain and glorious opportunity. Would it not be more resistant to the storms? Would it not be heartier against the drought? All of its brethren in the rich ground were naive to struggle. Their roots had not been starved and made wiry and tough.

She smiled. She adjusted her shirt, splaying the letters of the restaurant over her chest. Maybe she was just a waitress now, but she would be more. One day she’d be the one shining in the sun. She’d be the one people stopped and admired amidst the mottled grey walls and the phallic graffiti.

One last glance, she thought. She looked back as she was leaving. A fat man in a suit, his body rolling loosely as he moved, plowed forward. His lips, two slugs making love, smacked away as he spit profanities into his phone. His shiny shoes clipped the flower’s top, decapitating it. His cigarette fell from his fingers and lit the leaves aflame.

She watched until it was consumed by the fire. Then she turned and walked away.