I waited with trepidation for the dandelion seeds to take flight, I always had. There was something about them, something intangible almost like ghosts holding parasols with a license to roam both day and night. Ethereal in their opalescent beauty, the seeds appeared from mass, golden deaths to haunt the fields, roadsides and gardens for scant days each year. I imagined them drifting off into a pale nowhere that I alone would one day find. It saddened me that I didn’t. I’ve dreamed of that place where the dandelion seeds lie for so many years. One day, I’ll find them.