I feel the green of the grass. The cool fingers reach up to caress me and pull some of the heat out of my body. My legs are crossed and I reach down to pluck dandelions out of the neverending field around me. Some have already gone to seed and I blow on them and make wishes. Always wishing to be someone else. I feel the green of the grass. My fingers crush the tubelike stems and I watch the milky latex seep out.

Shadows creep across the field changing the light every few seconds and I take it in. I pluck another dandelion and chew the stem. I enjoy the bitterness because it reminds me of being a child. There isn’t a space around me free from flowers and I couldn’t be happier. I am one of them. Their tiny yellow petals stain my fingers as I pluck them one-by-one. I take apart the center and I’m left with just a stem again and I put it in my mouth to chew on it for a while. My socks are too tight and my shoes are uncomfortable. It’s hot out and I am one of the flowers. I wonder to myself why a flower would wear socks and shoes and I start to undo my laces. Sweat is running down my face. Flowers don’t sweat. I reach up to wipe away the sweat and remember that I’m wearing a hat. The world is a carousel of diffusion from the clouds wiping the sun away. I feel the green of the grass. Only its intensity is changing. I hear someone yelling. Flowers don’t have ears, I remind myself. My hands bring up a bundle of grass to my nose and I inhale deeply. Can flowers smell? If they can, I know they would love the smell of grass. Davey. The seeds from another ripe flower blow away, carried on my breath, and I make a wish–I wish I wasn’t me. Each floating seed goes in and out of the soft light in a disappearing act when the sunlight hits them. Houdini would be proud of them. My eyes follow them as they land in different parts of the field and tuck in between the clover flowers making their beds amongst their friends. DAVEY, what are you doing? The clouds move aside and the sun hits my eyes. My eyes adjust back from being those of a flower. I’m in the outfield. There’s suddenly a baseball sitting next to me. Davey, get the ball and throw it back. My fingers kiss the green of the field one more time, slow and deliberate. I feel the green of the grass. Lazily, I make my way over to the ball not even bothering to pick up my glove, and I throw it back into the infield aimlessly. I know my dad is going to be mad at me. I let him down, my coach, my team. I wonder if he’ll be dad or coach on the drive home as I watch the ball slowly roll off the grass and into the sand. I enjoy the bitterness.

Back in the outfield I start chewing into another dandelion stem. Maybe the bitterness will soften the yelling later. I bite into one. Then another. Then another. I feel the green of the grass. We are what we eat. I am just another dandelion.

I spit out the bitter plant juice. Mine didn’t make the sound his had made just a moment before and he could see I was upset. Getting there that morning was a series of flashes. I don’t remember leaving the house, or the base. There is netting around me and my brother is next to me. We’re in a cart being pulled behind my dad’s bike. He’s a baseball player today. The tight pants, high socks, jersey with red lettering, red hat. His cleats are old and worn. His mitt is even more worn. Dark leather tucked gently into his bag slung on his shoulder. I find out later that he carried that mitt around the world with him, including to our current home in Japan. Slowly the city sounds come up. At first it was just the hum of the bike tires on the road as we bounced along, but now it’s a low din. We take turn after turn and the buildings get taller until we are surrounded. The skyline breaks suddenly and there is what feels like a neverending park. We’re out of the bike trailer and I can feel the green of the grass. My dad tells us to stay close to the ball field and play. He goes and joins in the game with people whose only shared language is baseball. I sit in the grass and start playing with the gentle blades. I lose track of my brother. My fingers dig through to the roots and I pull up fistfuls to my nose. I don’t know what that smell is, but it feels like being home. Simple earth. The smell of cold dirt and roots. There are dandelions and the bright yellow catches my gaze. I find them irresistible. One of them finds its way into my mouth, and I chew into the middle of the flower. Petals are still hanging from my lips as I pluck one that has already gone through its lifecycle and is ready to seed and I start a new generation with my breath. Tiny yellow petals and spit accompany the seeds in a flurry of potential.

Suddenly the wind blows back an ancient man. He speaks to me, but I don’t know what he’s saying. The words are simply air vibrating my tiny ears. He reaches down and plucks a dandelion. One with a large stem. The kind I won’t touch because they are more green than yellow. He gently removes the flower from the end and bites the stem flush. He turns it over and bites the opposite end then gently presses it in his fingers. It splits perfectly in half just a little ways up. He then takes the split end and puts it in his mouth. His hands are behind his ears with his palms flat, he blows through the dandelion stem, and out comes a trumpet–suddenly he is an ancient elephant. We’re no longer in Tokyo, we’re in the savanna. He flaps his ears around and stomps on the grass while tooting his trunk loudly. The sunlight is dappled. I feel the green of the grass. I feel the warmth of the sun. I’m on my first safari escaping from close calls with lions and watching gazelle frolic. I don’t know the names of any of the animals and the elephant can’t tell me them. But he tells me that I can be an elephant too.

He shows me which dandelions are the best for growing a trunk. I watch how he holds his, the shapes he uses to speak the language of elephants, and how his breath brings the calls to life. My feet carry me around the park in search of my own, and I find it at the precipice of a tall tree. I again watch his every move and try to replicate them exactly. I put my trunk on for the first time. I put my hands behind my ears and flap them to brush away the flies. I breathe in as deep as I can and I squeeze my lips down and blow and out comes the tiniest squeak. The old elephant laughs. I see the deep ravines carved by time on his face. I suddenly remember that we’re in a park under trees next to a baseball field in Tokyo and I am a child. I try again to be an elephant and my toot is louder and more formed. I wiggle the pieces of the dandelion against each other in my mouth. I try again with less force. I put my hands up and lean forward to project my trunk out like I have seen in the books and my trumpet rings out for the whole savanna to hear. The ancient elephant and I stomp around and laugh and sound our trumpets. Suddenly my brother is there and we’re a full herd of elephants blowing our trunks triumphant in the warm wind. We are the lords of the savanna that day. I run with my trunk out and my head down not watching where I’m going–nothing can hurt an elephant–I run head first into my dad.

He says it’s time to go. “Arigato,” he tells the wise old elephant who spits his trunk out and bows before walking away. We’re back in the whirlwind. I’m a child again. I reach in my pocket and take my trunk out one last time. I put it in my mouth and blow my trumpet. I enjoy the bitterness.

The game was over. The ride home felt long.

I sat in the front seat of my dad’s car. 1987 Chevy Blazer in navy blue. It had rust spots we called cancer. He’d often touch the scars and speak about them like battle wounds he couldn’t fix. It was a year older than me, another older brother. When it stalled on the hills, he’d try again with patience and gentle encouragement. But maybe that was it, it was just a 1987 Chevy Blazer that had never wanted to be a flower.

I picked the torn blades out of my baseball pants. I felt the green of the grass. My eyes refused to look over at him. I knew his face wouldn’t tell me any stories on its own. It never did back then. A solemn statue poorly hiding disappointment and regret as automaton motion guided my big brother to get us home. My pocket hid another elephant trunk that I couldn’t get to trumpet no matter how hard I had tried earlier that day. I was afraid he’d find it.

Davey, I can’t even tell you how disappointed I am.

His words broke the air in half. I watched them make their way through the air and surround me and I picked at the grass stains on the knee of my pants more intently–the motion of my fingers taking me back out to the field.

The problem isn’t that you’re not trying hard enough, you’re not even trying.

I could be a dandelion.

You let the whole team down.

I could be an elephant.

You let me down.

I could close up at night.

Are you even listening, Davey?

I could open back up in the morning.

Davey, damnit, I’m talking to you, boy.

I could blow away.

Where the heck are you even at, son?

I could feel the green of the grass.

Why don’t you even care?

I could taste the bitterness and like it.

What is wrong with you?

Not because it was sweet.

I just don’t understand how you turned out like this.

But because it was mine.

August 13, 2025