Dad said we should pick them all.
Every last dandelion we could find in the yard.
And when our baskets were full, go next door.
Pull all the neighbors dandelions too.
The grapes tasted horrible.
We were told to help rip down all the vines.
But dad had wine on the mind.
All those dandelions.
I was so proud with my baskets full.
He worked in his shop cleaning all the vessels.
All the hoses were dried in the sun.
Did he really know what he was doing?
I didn’t know much of wine.
I didn’t know much of anything.
I wondered how Dad knew so much.
He worked on that wine day and night.
Dad used every dandelion.
He sent us out to hunt for more.
He told us to check the fields just in case.
Just in case there was a patch we had missed.
He would have to wait another week.
The dandelions would surely grow back by then.
He continued to futz with the batch he had made.
Trying everything to concoct the perfect taste.
My dad’s dandelion wine tasted like grass.
Very similar to the taste of a dandelion weed.
It was almost as horrible as the grapes,
We were no longer told to pick dandelions.
That bottle of Whiskey lasted maybe two days.
I wasn’t sure if he was drowning his sorrows.
It must have tasted better than the grapes and dandelions.
He washed those horrible tastes from his mouth.