Sweet Dandelion

“You’re on a roll today.”

“Eh.” I shrug. “My real personality was bound to show through at some point.” I set the sketchpad aside and crisscross my legs under me. “I guess I’m acclimating.”

“Do you think being around kids your age is helping?”

Mr. Taylor is asking more questions today, but it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to split apart my mind and see inside. It feels like I’m talking to anyone who might ask such a thing, like my brother.

“Maybe. It’s not like I got a lot of socialization in the hospital or rehabilitation center. I was more focused on being able to walk again.”

He rubs his jaw, his blue eyes darkening to a navy. “I can’t even imagine.”

“Yeah,” I blow out a breath, melancholy settling on my shoulders as I look out the window. “They told me I’d never walk again, let alone run, but I wanted to prove them wrong. It’s a miracle I can stand, but I put everything I had into making it happen. I still have numbness radiating down my left side. It’s why I walk funny.”

Mr. Taylor stares at me like a complicated math problem, something he’s both equally fascinated by and desperate to solve.

I hate to tell him, but there’s no mathematical answer when it comes to me.

I’m scarred. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally.

Every way you look at it, I’m broken.

My leg is probably the least broken part of me even if sometimes I hate it so much I’m afraid the anger will choke me from the inside.

Running was my life. I was passionate about it. It was my freedom. Now, I’ll live the rest of my life never doing it again.

But, at the end of the day, I have a life where others lost theirs.

Several moments pass before he says to me, “You don’t think you’re strong, do you?”

I shrug, looking down at my half-painted nails I never bothered to finish. “I’m not. I was put into that situation and I did what I had to do.”

“You could’ve given up,” he points out.

“I think I would have,” I admit, the words like sandpaper on my throat. “But I couldn’t. Not for my brother’s sake. He needed to see me whole, well as whole as I can be.” He doesn’t say anything and I pick up my sketchpad again. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

Nothing.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue,” he answers easily, not at all bothered by me shutting down the previous conversation. “What’s yours?”

“Yellow.”

“Like a dandelion?” Some people have asked that question mockingly. Not Mr. Taylor. I can tell he’s genuinely wondering.

“Mhmm,” I hum, “dandelion yellow. I used to braid them in my hair during the summer.”

Back when things were simpler and easy.

Brushing some eraser shavings off my sketchpad I ask, “What made you want to be a school counselor?”

He leans back in his chair, spinning slightly. He might think he looks unbothered, but I can tell my question has him a tiny bit on edge.

“I wanted to help people.”

“Sure, yeah, but why a school counselor?”