Dandelion seeds becoming birds on upper back

I have finally got the wind sorted for your mother's lawn, which was the whole reason I went out in the rain on Tuesday with a bag of your granddad's old tins. You will laugh, but the dandelions came up again along the south fence the minute the hosepipe ban lifted, and I stood there with a trowel like a woman who had lost an argument with a weed. Your uncle Pete says I should have let them go. He may be right. Half of them had already gone to fluff by the time I got to them, and the seeds were just hanging there in the grey light like they were waiting for someone to tell them where to be.

I am writing because I found the old photograph from the summer the orchard flooded, the one where you blew on that seed head by the gate and wished for something you would not tell me. Do you remember? You were so sure of your wish you wouldn't even say it out loud. I have been thinking about that all week. Every time one of those seeds lifted off, I wanted to see whether it would land somewhere sensible or turn into something with a beak and a sense of direction.

The last one I watched went up over the cider press and kept going, and then it did a thing I cannot explain, it tipped sideways and became a swallow, or a starling, I could not say which. It did not look back. I stood on the step with the tin in my hand and laughed out loud like a fool.

Come for Sunday lunch if you can. Bring the wish, if you want, or keep it. I shan't ask.

Love, Nan