Agora: Red Deer Polytechnic Undergraduate Journal
Volume 16:2 (2025) Student Writer Awards

My Dandelion
Annika Jackson
Whenever I walk past a freshly trimmed lawn, I have
vivid memories of my parents working in the yard to keep it
pristine. They would pull themselves back into the house,
cocooned in sweat, dirt, and clippings of grass that narrowly
avoided the bag hanging from our lawnmower. The smell of hard
work and freshly groomed greenery swirled together in the
house on a too-hot summer day. It was never perfect, and they
would often compare it to our neighbour’s yard. The line
between the two was apparent to any passersby as the colours
of each shifted dramatically. It was as though he took the time
to individually paint each blade of grass to match the last.
Always no more than three inches. He was out there all day in
the summer curating the perfect suburbia in our less than
suburban neighbourhood. I loved the yard my parents provided
for us all the same. When I moved to my own space, it was a
small basement suite. Nicer than most other options available
and most excitingl, it had its own green space out back. I spent
the first few winter months in wait for spring to arrive. I
imagined long nights around a fire, or lounging days in a
hammock or a gazebo in that yard. My very own.

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The snow shifted from its icy exterior to a slushy layer
which allowed more and more grass to reach out as the days went
on. I found an old push lawnmower with “FREE” sprawled on a
sign tucked within the spokes. This granted me the authority
over my lawn, a moment of triumph. I had finally grown from a
young girl admiring the effort put into owning and curating the
outdoors, to being able to bend it to my own will. I could do it
all. I went out and purchased seeds for my garden. I felt each
individual bead inside the glossy paper packet. The image
printed on it boasted a luscious flower garden that would soon
pale to mine. As I scattered these into my primped garden, the
heat of the sun grew stronger. The longer days and increase in
the weather gave me more energy each time I stepped outside.
The summers, despite evoking images of lounge chairs
and piña coladas, was busier than anticipated. I was confined to
the indoors, either my home or my job, and rarely found myself
enjoying the world outside. Scattered streaks of sunshine peeked
through blinds to gloat at the world that was going on around
me. On the day I made the trek back to my yard I found an
addition to my flower garden I was not equipped to handle. The
first dandelion had grown. I knew that this was a possibility.
Dandelions were everywhere. Not just outdoors but placed on
the sides of pesticide bottles in every garden section with red X’s
photoshopped over them. But I had never seen them in my

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parent’s yard, or my neighbour’s. When it came to yard work,
they were not something that ever seemed to be a part of it.
Down the street there was a house with dandelions covering it,
but that was seen as an outlier. Someone who didn’t put the work
in, and so they didn’t get the beautiful lawn they deserved. I was
putting the work in when I could. This shouldn’t be happening.
I looked at the plant in front of me and contemplated
my next course of action. Coating it with some spray felt cruel.
I couldn’t help but feel the burning sensation it would cause on
my own skin. Shrivelling whatever life it touched to bone. I
decided on just pulling it out. Upon conception, this seemed
like an easy task, but once I grew nearer to the plant, it felt like
a cruel course of action. Once you look, you see that it is
nothing more than a flower who had the misfortune of growing
in my space. It didn’t choose this spot any more than I chose to
be born from the mother I was. I felt pity for this lonely sprout.
Out of that pity came a compromise between the two of us. So
long as the dandelion doesn’t cause my any issues, I would let
it be.
I mowed around the dandelion the next time I went to
handle my lawn. It had a healthy patch of grass around it that
grew several centimetres longer than the blades I oversaw.
Each glance at my dandelion brought me back to a time of
childhood. Making flower crowns and blowing seeds when

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they finally bloomed. I truly began to love this blossoming
presence and wanted nothing but the best for it. Seeing it as I
walked to my car and back, whenever I would take out the trash
or check my mail. It was a pleasant constant in my small spurts
of outdoor time. Growing taller and brighter each day. The
inevitable fate of my flower was that it would begin to seed. I
had accounted for this eventuality, deciding that once it got to
this point it would be fine to pull. This to me felt like an honesty
I could be content with. Convincing myself that it had lived a
life cycle and so I had done what I could for it. As I brought my
groceries in one day I saw that the flower had closed in on itself
and would change soon. My hands were full of cheap reusable
bags from the grocery store, too full to handle the flower now.
This chore swept me indoors and I vowed that tomorrow I
would go and trim the flower down. What I had not accounted
for was how windy the next morning would be.
By the time I went out to handle my situation, the flower
was a stump. The seeds had emancipated themselves, leaving
behind an empty stem amidst the tall grass. I considered the
consequences of this and had determined that I could not be so
kind with the next one. Against my wishes, the natural world
moves on. I had dreamt of this space, and to maintain it would
mean being strict about the precise vegetation that could
become residents. I considered the possibility that my parents

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never saw a weed because they had handled it the way I didn’t.
That these plants weren’t a curse ingrained into those who
didn’t manage the green space in front of them, but a part of
the process.
The next batch of dandelions sprang up. Summer grew
closer as the beginning of spring floated away. Each day was
getting hotter and my energy for yard work shifted, beginning
to run out quickly. Regardless, the dandelions multiplied, a
small gathering taking place where soft grass once was. On a
rare cloudy afternoon, I embarked with tools for pulling and
plucking my yard in hand. Picturing each new bloom no
differently than a hair growing in the wrong place. A pimple to
be squeezed. Despite this outlook, pesticides still seemed
merciless. I went on my expedition with the goal of saving my
space from the invading plants I had allowed in, but not without
compassion. The first dandelion I came across was much
smaller than the one I had grown a tender-heartedness for. It
was still new. This flower had barely felt the warm embrace of
sunlight on its leaves. I forced my shovel in the dirt, loosening
the plant before pulling it out completely. It laid limply in my
hand, roots still clinging to what little soil it had left. I pictured
myself doing this to any other creature. A small mammal with
its head hanging limply over my fingers. Growing cold through
tufts of fur as I ripped it from its home. So quickly going from

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a blooming flower to a dead weed because I decided it was in
the wrong space. Space that I had no more of a claim to than it
did.
I couldn’t pull anymore that day. Or that week. An
image of the plants corpse still imprinted on my brain, tingling
my fingers at the thought of it. The scent of fresh earth brought
out of the ground was still lingering. Nostalgia of salt and soil
mingling felt different on my skin than my parents. Soon
enough summer came. Each time I went to the yard to try and
clear out the weeds there were several more than the time
before. The task itself began to seem an impossible feat. I
would often remember being a child and running around my
yard at home. The tickling of small blunt blades on the bottom
of my bare feet. I couldn’t do that here. Not only were these
dandelions multiplying, but the variety of them had expanded
as well. More and more of these small creatures had spikes
along their stems. Even when I could manage to pull some,
their roots had gone down farther than my shovel could reach.
I would have to pull up the whole yard to discourage them. I
was becoming more and more desperate for the lush green lawn
I had dreamt the further away from it I got. The longer this
space existed in my life, the more it transformed into an
impossible challenge. A boulder that rolled down the hill
farther than I could push it back up.

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That day I ran my hand along the spout of the pesticide
bottle I had reluctantly bought. It came equipped with a nozzle
to accurately spray the weeds instead of the grass. This would
seem considerate if the spaces filling with weeds didn’t already
outweigh the grassy area. I wielded the plastic bottle with a
determination that I hadn’t thought I could possess, never
handling anything I considered a weapon before. I am still
debating with myself if this changes that. I started spraying
each and every plant I could find, specifically targeting the
ones preparing to multiply. The soft white seeds slumped over
with the pressure from the liquid poison I had coated them with.
The weight I felt at this task was not alleviated. Despite that, I
continued until the bottle was empty. I went inside, wracked
with guilt over the destruction I had caused.
The next day I went to examine the carnage. However,
the reality of the little progress I had made became clear. While
many of the flowers were wilting away, there were just as many
growing in new places. A realization filled me until it was the
only thought that could pass through my mind. No matter what
I did to their yard, the weeds were not planning on leaving. I
saw my barely sprouting garden surrounded by a barbed wire
fence topped with yellow and white buds. The grass that I had
excitedly mowed eons ago was sparse and brown. My yard had
become a jungle I couldn’t contain. Slowly, I conceded to the

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plants around me. As summer slowly came to an end, I stopped
trying to convince myself there was something to be done.
The yard is now an oasis to insects and animals that had
been seeking a space untouched by humans. I see more bees
and ladybugs flying passed as fall inches closer and closer. Jays
and woodpeckers lined my fences hunting these very insects.
Currently there is a young snowshoe hare hiding under a
particularly large dandelion as its mother gathers food. So
quickly this space transformed. Once a place I aspired to care
for. An idyllic image of late nights and early mornings. I once
pictured fires and gardening. These fantasies no longer belong
to me. I have been demoted to a voyeur. Sitting back and
watching as the creatures work and prepare for the harsh winter
to come. They have more determination than they will ever
know, and I will ever possess.

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