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bicides then walk away to let them wither for days to their death. I prefer digging them up (which is quite a feat since the taproot grows almost to China) because it just feels a bit more humane to me. I know that’s crazy, but it’s just how I feel.

And I often ponder why certain plants are considered “weeds.” Americans have labeled the humble dandelion with this rather coldhearted term, but in Italy and France, the plant is embraced because every part of it is edible. Europeans harvest the leaves of dandelions when they are young and tender, before they flower, and cook them into delicacies. I’ve eaten the leaves in salads, and they are quite tasty, but you can’t wish upon a leaf. You have to let it be to get the fuzzy fun part.

Collectively, throughout time, how many wishes have been made on dandelions? A million? A billion? More? What if we could hear the echoes of every single childhood wish made upon their fuzz?

So the next time you encounter a field of dandelions, don’t dismiss them as mere weeds. Instead, see them as storytellers and conduits of wishes waiting to be heard. Bend down, make a wish, and release it into the warm Southern air. For in that simple act, you become part of the timeless dance between dreams and the dandelion’s delicate seeds. You become part of a communion between the dreamer and these emissaries of hope of the botanical world. Most of all, you become young again.