I knew people didn’t particularly like dandelions. And yet, but for Mrs. Muzik’s lawn (she was an extraordinary gardener), they roamed up and down Van Dyke Road, tickling toes freed from the confines of winter, gathered in fists of little Norton girls bursting to profess one sort of love or another, mowed over by exhausted Dyndas, and thrusted by angry Shulz boys into unsuspecting summer dreamers.

I guess I was one of those dreamers. He rubbed the dandelion on my face and under my chin. I couldn’t see the yellow that he claimed was all over my face, but I couldn’t see the feel it, along with the pink that cheeked my embarrassment. “That means you like butter!” He laughed, almost accusatorially. I didn’t understand. I did like butter, and he laughed even louder when I told him so. Confused, I rode off on my banana seat bike. The yellow remained, I suppose, until the after dinner bath.

I only thought of it yesterday when I saw the sea of yellow at a distance. How pretty, I thought. I do love the color yellow. As I climbed the hill, they became more clear. Dandelions. I have to admit, there was a brief second where I thought, oh, just dandelions, and then I caught myself. They were beautiful. And as long as we’re mentioning it, I do love butter! And especially French butter!

The thing is, we get to decide. It’s easy to go along with the crowd. To hop on the lawnmower when we’re tired. Send the nasty message. Begin to hate even, for no reason other than a color. Maybe it gets harder as the crowds get bigger, the voices get louder, the weapons more fierce, so we have to be strong. Stronger. And if we like “yellow,” we must wear it with pride. All day long, with hair blowing in the breeze.

There are so many things I don’t understand in this world. But I still know the difference between right and wrong. And I do love butter.