I can remember as a young child picking dandelions to make a wish. Eyes tightly shut, face all smooshy and distorted to the point of my eyelids disappearing beneath my lashes; the wishes I had were life altering, or at least in my budding heart they were. One after the other, I would blow those dandelion seeds until the perching of my lips caused my face to start to tingle. The more I picked, the harder I would blow in the expectation of my hearts desires to birth right there in that moment. I cannot remember the specifics of my many wishes. I can only recall the warm summers my tiny hands would pluck those dandelions in the hopes of one, if not all, of my wishes would show themselves true. Wish after wish after wish I knew one day all my face scrunching, lip perching, breath blowing yearning would pay off. The hopes of a child are forever pure in the tender innocent of age. And I was no different. As I g