Sometimes in the early evening, Kai and Mouse and I walk to a park near our home. On our way, we pass a grassy strip along the street. It's not in anybody's yard, and as it's behind a fence, nobody mows it very often. This time of year the grass grows high and green there, and the dandelions get quite tall. Kai loves picking these beautiful weeds. He has an eye for the most perfect ones - white fluffy spheres perched on long smooth stems. He pulls them up with his right hand, then gently transfers them to his left where he can hold them pinched between his pinky and ring-finger. He doesn't blow them right away. He likes to just have them - whole, round, and perfect. But then his movement, or a sudden breeze knocks loose a few of the seeds; eager to fly away on their mission of propagation.
Kai looks at the now broken dandelion top with a bit of dissatisfaction. He draws a deep breath and starts to blow. "Make a wish!" I tell him, but he doesn't pause to consider it - the little white parachutes fly off into the air, and he starts his search again for the most perfect dandelion.
It's part of the beautiful nature of four-year-olds; they live so totally in the moment. Shooting-stars, Birthday Candles, and the explosion of little fuzzy seeds into the air are not wasted by them on thoughts of distant desires.
I wait for Kai as he kicks through the tall grass on his mission. I watch the breeze carry off the tiny little seeds, like dry starry promises against the fading blue sky, and I try to quiet my mind of my own busy, faraway wishes.