A Five Minute Story
A Fistfull Of Dandelions
It was a very warm spring day as the child crouched in the grass. Fat fuzzy bumblebees flew lazily in the air and an occasional pastel yellow butterfly would flutter past as he attended to the task at hand.
He was picking flowers for his mother.
Not just any flower would do, though. The one's with the very long stems were the best, the ones that kind of drooped by the weight of their heavy golden heads. And the flowers themselves had to be thouroughly inspected, any that seemed wilted, or brownish, or missing some petals were simply not good enough.
When he had collected a couple dozen of the very best ones he ran to the house with them clutched in his small fist.
He found his mother in the family room sipping cold coffee and watching a soap opera. (She called them "her stories" and she watched them every day without fail.)
"Mommy! Mommy! I picked some flowers for you!" the boy said as he held out his fist, offering them to her.
A handful of brightly-colored weeds.
His mother paused only for a moment and then she said, "Oh, sweetie! They're beautiful! Thank you!" and she took the bright yellow dandelions and then she said, "Let's go put these in some water."
By the way she acted you would have thought they were orchids, or lillies of the valley, or some precious exotic flower that grew only in the remotests parts of the earth and only under the rarest of conditions, not some pesky weed that the groundskeeper had been trying valiantly (but unsuccessfully) to eradicate. Her soap opera forgotten for the moment, she went to get a vase.