Pappus

For years, I wore a borrowed name,
like a coat that fit just fine,
practical, grown-up, tailored for the world beyond childhood.
Sunflower, they said.
A name that marched, that built, that stood.

But somewhere deep in the quiet halls of me,
a softer sound kept echoing,

Dandelion.
A name that danced barefoot in the garden,
that giggled under mango trees,
that cried only when the stars weren’t looking.

I didn't know how much I missed her
until the world began to whisper her back into my ears.
Not just my roots,
not just those who saw me before I knew how to spell my name,
but even the new hearts,
the ones I’ve only just met,
call me Dandelion now.

And oh, how the name blooms again.
Like jasmine in the dusk, (uh jasmine?)
like a song I didn’t know I remembered.

Dandelion, she was never lost, only waiting.
Waiting beneath layers of grown-up days.

Now, when someone says her name,
it's not just a sound,
it’s a door creaking open,
a warm light pouring in,
a hand reaching back to hold the child I was,
and the woman I am.

And in that moment,
I am home.