A Dandelion:
"Good morning!" booms the principal's voice through the wall speakers in the large bedroom.
"Today, we will be cleaning, getting rid of all those unwelcome weeds around here." The speakers make his voice sound different, but I know it is his. His favorite song, "White," follows his announcement every morning at six o’clock. I can't help while feeling the straws of my mattress poking my body again, but wonder why this song is always stuck in my head throughout the day. Maybe it's because I hear it constantly. But I don’t like it! Weird, I think to myself, getting up quickly. I don’t like my bed either, still paying attention to my thoughts.
She, a grown-up, opens the door of the big bedroom, trying to get through the heavy air accumulated by our breathing from the last night. She rushes towards the windows like a swimmer trying to inhale air again, to let the Summer-fresh-air come in. Does outside ever get to sleep? A thought coming from nowhere passes by my mind. I peek from my blanket, tired again, letting the fresh air to satin over me. It’s feels kind and gentle. I smile. Even I don’t look, I sense all the little kids’ bodies waking up, buzzing around, making their double beds quickly, getting dressed, sliding their little feet to their oversized slippers, all quiet, watching the oval-white-clock on the wall like eagles spotting their prays from miles away. We all know here; we can’t be late.
“Good morning, everyone. It’s sunny out.” she says loudly, clapping her hands in the center of the big bedroom. Her tired eyes scan over us as she stands there, a woman in her thirties with long brown hair and a persistent demeanor. Her white lab coat hangs on her body, with a pen peeking out of the pocket, but it doesn't bring any joy to her face. She's simply doing her job. I wonder if she has children of her own as I begin to get ready for the day ahead quickly. Does she love them?
We start our day with morning exercises, followed by 10-minute cold showers and breakfast. After making our beds (which earns us points), we head to the other building to grab garden tools for our chores outside. It’s beautiful out today. Birds are signing and a light breeze keeps whooshing through the leaves. The sun is smiling, and I do as I am told. Wearing long-sleeved shirt and pants today will make removing the weeds much easier. My knees won't get hurt like they would if I wore shorts, I think to myself. I pick up a small tool specifically designed for removing weeds from the ground and head to the front of the orphanage. I start poking at the dandelion, which according to the grown-ups, is nothing more than a pesky weed that needs to be removed.
‘She can't stay here’, they say - keeps echoing in my head.
I toss aside the tool and grab a wooden stick, using it to poke at the dandelion. The tool is too harsh, I think to myself. As I continue poking at the flower, a wave of sadness washes over me. It doesn't seem fair, but I keep my inner thoughts silent, not wanting anyone to notice me or get punished. They say she can't stay, and I repeat it in my head. But can't they see how beautiful she is? Her vibrant yellow color shines like the sun, and her green petals look as elegant as a princess' nightgown from TV. Who decides who stays and who goes? The flower did nothing wrong; she's just being her lovely self.
A sudden thought comes at me. Did I do something wrong? Is that why I am here, in this orphanage, without my mama? I’d like to follow the rules of this place, because I want them to like me, but the rules don’t make any sense to me. My thoughts don’t let me be.
“Show me what you’ve done in those two hours!!” a grown-up silhouette shadow in a white coat covers my sitting body and the dandelions’ completely. Horrified, I look up.
I know the grown-up wouldn’t understand. So, I stay silent, trying to stop my tears from falling with my dirty hands. It’s been two hours already? I gasped silently.
“You haven’t done anything!” Her face tenses with anger. She reaches into her white coat and pulls out a card, extending it towards me. It has more points on it than before, and her frustration is clear. (More points – More work around the orphanage)
She turns around and yells out. “Bring the tools back and get ready for the lunch, everyone!”, she says it without looking at me, leaving like a soldier, unbothered anymore.
As I stand up, I glance around and notice that all the kids have followed the rules set by the grown-ups - They knew how. As I make my way to the big washroom to wash my hands and prepare for lunch, I turn back to see only one flower remaining. Mine. And as I look at her, a realization dawns on me: just like this flower, neither do I belong here, nor does she, even if she is just considered a weed.
She is as beautiful as I am, no matter what they tell us.
I smile.
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