I met a little weed on the side of the road yesterday. 

I was walking home from the bus stop, and there it stood like a lighthouse in the immaculate sea of green on my neighbor’s lawn. A rebellious streak of yellow amidst the conformity of the identical, shoulder-to-shoulder blades around it.

I had never seen one before. Not on such a perfect lawn, at least. I needed to know its story. Who was it? What had it experienced? What had it done? What had it encountered?

If anyone were to ask me that last question, I would’ve promptly recounted this very story as it has consumed my nights since. Every afternoon, I stroll alongside that same neighbor’s lawn in hopes of visiting the stranger I had never acquainted myself with. But, every afternoon, it rains, and I sit at my window watching and wondering without an ounce of accomplishment. 

I tell myself, when it’s a nice sunny day, I’ll go over there. I will. But two weeks go by with not a single ray of light in sight.

So, I fantasize what I have not the courage to actualize.

The valiant flower has likely braved many adventures. I hope to hear of them all. It’s probably seen drearier weeks than this, tormented by hail and sleet. I marvel at the thought, snuggled in layers of warmth as I explore the outside world’s struggles before my eyes. It rains and rains and I sit and sit. 

Such a brave little weed. If only I could muster up some part of that in me. 

Maybe then, I could finally meet my beloved flower. Then, I look out at the rain again, and a little of my warm safety seems to shake from me. It slides off and clunks on the floor like a weight, and my shoulders rise up from the relief of it. The air smells sharp with a cool overcoat that coaxes me off my sleepy feet. 

I am going to see my little weed.

I march toward the door, not stopping for my umbrella on the way out. I have the courage of the little weed with me. 

That is all I need.

I step into the outside world. The air is even sharper and cooler but faster in a way that it all comes to life. Rain hurls at my daring venture, but I brave on. 

For my little weed. 

I’m nearing my neighbor’s lawn; the rocky waves of green roll with a tumultuous charge. They fly in the harsh wind, a storm of their own. 

There’s green, and there’s more green. Green everywhere. Not a speck of yellow. 

It’s gone. 

My little weed.

Is gone. 

The rain grows louder, and the thunder creeps from every corner, all orchestrating against me. They scream and slap at my back. If only I’d come sooner. If only I’d come sooner, I could’ve met my little weed. I should’ve. I should’ve talked that first day I’d seen it. Oh, the conversations we could’ve had. Oh, the time and the memories and the friends and all I had waited and dreamed of. Only if I would’ve come sooner. 

I head back to my house. If only. If only.

I near my mailbox and grab the letters inside, letting the rain tear through the pages. Wind rips one out of my hand. It flies down somewhere in the green sea in front of my house. 

I venture onward.

The storm shouts, and I go on. I find the letter wet and soggy. I lift it, and it folds over on itself. But, just underneath it, I see a shimmer of bright. 

Something alone, stubbornly loud in the quiet of the world. 

Something brave, full of valiant tales. 

Something yellow, a dash of rebellious color amidst the endless green.

Another little weed.