Dandilion in a church yard

In a church yard grew a flower, well not a flower, a weed... In a church yard grew a dandelion, its bright yellow fuzzy head peeked out beyond the boxed in glorified, tended and intentionally planted flowers. Our little friend, the dandelion, looked in awe upon the regal roses, the graceful lilies, and the clustered daises. Our the yellow bud gazed upon them with contentment, perhaps a sigh may have expressed itself with in her roots, I sigh that would say if it could, "I will not be loved as they are, but there are much worse places for a weed such as myself to live". The Dandelion therefore remained content as that was her disposition to do so.
She, (for the sake of our story our yellow companion shall be a she, though of course flowers have no gender) often looked upon the comings and goings of the church yard, for her face as it were was happily fixed upon that position and observed with interest the passers by.The life of the dandelion is but short and she took in as much as she could in her time. One day she watched as people joyfully entered the church, dressed up in their human finery which more often then not seemed to the dandelion, a cheap imitation of flowers in the garden, but it was not her place to judge the ways of humans. The last to arrive was a woman, who was perhaps not the most pretty of humans to see, or even the most lovely who entered that day, she wore upon her stem (for that is how flowers think our bodies should be named and classified) the most ridiculous of costumes, all white, fluffy and, big like a mushroom who's bottom had grown upon its top. The of course knew dandelion knew mushrooms to be genial in nature, but they were considered a very unattractive form of vegetation to plant life in general.  In spite the unfortunate attire, the woman's face shone radiance and joy so profound that the dandelion wished it could turn it's head to gaze longer upon the features that shone so brightly and captivated the dandelion's weedy self. As the multitude left however the Dandelion was able to see once more the stunning countenance and felt a happiness for the young bride, for that is what she was, though the dandelion would never know it. A man whom the flower had not noticed earlier, but who shared the look of joy, though it was of a more sheepish kind, stepped to the garden and plucked up a rose and pressed it into the brides hand, as the bride brought the rose to her face and breathed in is fragrance, the dandelion wished for a moment to be that rose, but quickly remembered how lucky she was to have grown in such a exciting place, and was contented once again. 
Another day the dandelion watched as people not quite as colourful and not quite as happy trod into the church, some faces shone as if they were going to a place of comfort and joy, others looked as though they were entering to do a chore of some sort. A tall man with kindly and generous features, stood just before the steps of the church, just within the narrow scope of her yellow gaze, he was grasping leaves ( as our friend thought they must be) with the other people as they stepped within the confines of the church, he looked benevolently upon the obstinate children being dragged by impatient parents. There passed between this man and these small ones a look of understanding, as if they were comrades of a kind, and the young ones became less begrudging of the task before them, as the minister commiserated with them through his eyes. An older woman stooped among the flowers in their designated plot, she plucked up a spray of daises here, a lily, and rose there gathering the to her most ample stalk, she was a large woman, for they were to be displayed within the sacred abode. The dandelion wished for a moment that her fate lay with those fortunate flowers and envied for a short time the fame which they would hold, but as she was a weed with a short life, she wisely thought it futile to waste moments on such jealousies and resumed in her contentment in her lot, for although she was perhaps despised by these humans, seen as a burden upon the soil, she was more then blessed in her ability to see that which surrounded her, also she was not a mushroom, for that she thought she might truly have reason to lament.
 The last scene the dandelion had saw was a sad encounter indeed. The same benevolent man, who had so joyfully greeted those who entered the sanctuary over which he had charge, stood with a grave and melancholy expression fixed upon his features.  He stood upon the same spot he had stood only a short time before, as the others like him walked slowly and, sometimes even haltingly towards him. The dew of the morning seemed to cling to the faces that though often young seemed tired, many rested their heads upon the shoulders of this man, who though sorrowful, seemed to remain stalwart.She watched as a beautiful box, one which even the flowers beside her would wish to reside in, was brought in reverently upon the shoulders men bent upon a task. A task that based upon their features was very heavy, not as in wight, but as a soul rending burden, a duty of Honor and, extreme importance. Determination and even grit written on their faces. Lastly a long black pod arrived a pod of the same shape from which the fluffy, upside down mushroom had emerged. But this time what exited the pod was no more then a black slip of a human, to her leaves clung a  small child. Though our sun absorbing friend found it hard to discern who was giving support and who was receiving it the child r the adult.  The elder walked erect and elegantly towards the place through which the box had recently entered as they passed beyond the sight of the dandelion the small child glanced upon her with a curious look as f it knew the yellow weed was watching, but as swiftly as the dandelion thought this the child was gone. She contemplated this look, as whatever human ritual they were partaking in commenced with in the walls, but was unable to make much of it at all. As the humans exited the bigger human who had emerged so elegantly from the large black pod, was surrounded by other  people, her elegance now shattered, and dew streamed from a place the weed could not comprehend, this woman's stem, and leaves shook as if she were about to wilt and die as though a harsh winter had suddenly come upon her. The dandelion was so aptly studying this change of events, it was startled to find it was being tugged at, and before even a moment of time, being uprooted from its former quiet place, for half a second our friend faced indignity for now that she was removed from the earth her life was exponentially shortened, but that emotion was replaced quickly by the overwhelming sensation of touch that she had never felt wrapped around the whole of her stem, she was brought to the face of the small human, who instead of sniffing blew air upon her out of his nostrils, as children often do when imitating their adult counterparts, the warm breath wafted upon her and, she forgot all anger, instead feeling joy and, ecstasy in that which dandelions are few to experience. She then felt a sensation that was exhilarating, and though she did not know it's name  it was in fact. motion and, rapid motion at that. Suddenly the content plant was thrust up toward the human she had most recently being  reflecting on, that is the bigger human to which the child had been escorted by. The life of the dandelion dimmed, for she was fading fast but, the last moment our friend saw the face which had been broken, the human who she had a moment before thought would whither and die, that face gazed upon her own and, the weed saw a beauty that could not be captured by a thousand lives, beauty which could never be held within the most fullest and, loveliest of roses, it was a look of joy,  the dandelion beheld in that face and felt coursing from the human leaves down through her stem, joy. Joy which defied pain the purest, deepest and, saddest joy. Our little yellow friend then died, no longer content but beyond contentment, our little yellow friend felt rapture. Her small fulfilling life now expired. Human dew resting upon her bright head.                

Hot Chocolate

Today I made hot chocolate, I felt good  about it. I made it on the stove, granted I used a pre-made chocolate powder (coffee crisp flavoured) but I did not use the microwave, and this is a close to "from scratch" as this preservative filled cookie gets. Why the grand occasion well it was the first day of snow, and I try hard to create nice memories for my children to cling to,when they eventually realise just how abnormal their mama really is. I also made a cake the other day, and when the kidlets asked who's birthday it was, (as that is usually the only time we have cake), I told them "It's nobodies birthday we are just celebrating October 17" and then put sparklers on the cake to make it seem more festive, and silently prayed it would be a memory they will retain, while the sight of me scarfing down the cake would be a memory they would repress.
So here I sit on my computer sipping my hot chocolate out of a martini glass, cause that's how I roll, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that we were out of mugs, that is just a odd coincidence. Enjoying the sound of my kids, talking over their warm beverages, I feel warm content and happy. I figure if I can work one good memory into my children's lives everyday, I'm doing okay, it is just too bad that making breakfast is not really that memorable, or else I would have this thing down pat....