Swedish: Maskros

English: Dandelion

We run, away from the field and away from Erik. Perhaps he was hoping to find me alone, to sneak a secret moment in the shade of trees and twilight. But I want no such memories. Not with him at least.

Fadime's hand rests in mine as we rush through fields, meadows, and woods, not stopping to look back. In my other hand, I clasp the flowers I've found so far, making sure they're not dropped during our rushed escape.

We stop once we come to a gravel road, wedged between open fields. Here, we can't see Erik anymore, which hopefully means he couldn't, or wouldn't, follow. Leaning on my thighs, I bend down to pant. A yellow flower greets me from beside my boot.

Worm roses are considered weeds, but even weeds can be pretty. I snap the thick stem between my fingers, resolutely adding it to my bouquet. Worm rose children are what they call kids like me, thriving even in the worst of circumstances. Worm roses can grow between tiles, in cracks in asphalt, or, like here, surrounded by stony pebbles. I suppose I sprouted in a similar way, defying absent parents to pursue an academic path. In only a few years, I will be a teacher, hopefully giving children like myself someone they can trust.

For me, that person was my grandma. She took care of me in the summers, when my parents dropped me off at her cottage. The very same cottage that she left me in her will. My mom is still crossed at me for that, probably because she wanted to sell it for profit. But I am not giving up my grandma's last gift. One day, I want to live here, and perhaps teach in the nearby village. It's the only place that ever truly felt like home.

The sunny yellow fits perfectly next to the poppy. Fadime doesn't protest against me including a weed in my bouquet.