“Like a single divine lily in a field of dandelions.”

Sean sprang into consciousness, out of his maze of thoughts, startled by the suddenness. He had not realized there was anyone sitting there. He regarded the man, discreetly – slight but not frail, pale but not ghostly, at least 80 years old and wearing a navy-blue bowler hat. The man was not looking at Sean – he stared straight ahead, perhaps at the dogs gleefully tumbling over each other in the grass, or the cars passing by on the busy street beyond them. Truthfully, it seemed more like there was something in his imagination that was temporarily piloting his vision. Still, he felt compelled to respond out of courtesy.
           “Sorry, sir. I didn’t catch that.” Sean said.
           “Sure, the dandelions are lovely too, but as soon as the wind changes that beauty is gone.” The man replied, or perhaps just said coincidentally timed after Sean stopped speaking. He still was not looking at him.
                    Sean had to entertain the possibility the old man wasn’t operating with his full share of faculties, but he was completely non-threatening and curiously pleasant for a complete stranger.
           “…but a lily – her beauty outlasts all,” he concluded.
           The old man had a poetic way about him. His words touched something inside of Sean. He felt a connection without contact, empathy without understanding. Sean’s hands became clammy with unease as he shifted in his seat, subtly. His mind was back in the maze but the anxiety he felt was not born of helplessness; it was the promise of a way out. He was being given an opportunity to unlock the agent of his mental confines.
           “I’ve never met my real mom” he confessed, “I was adopted as an infant. 30 years later and here I sit, waiting on this bench to meet her for the first time. Isn’t that wild?”
           “Her petals will wilt with time, but their sheer presence serves as a reminder of how deeply they struck you at first sight,” said the old man, undeterred.
           “She contacted me on Facebook of all places. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be feeling,” said Sean. “I’m nervous, excited, curious… all at once. Have you ever felt that way?”
           “The dandelion is fleeting. One’s memory too will wilt with time and eventually we start to question it. The dandelion leaves too much to the imagination,” said the old man.
           “I think this may be her approaching now,” Sean said, spotting the lovely, kind-eyed woman he had seen in her profile. He was fixated on every detail of her face as she became more visible, realizing the pictures had not done it justice. The green of her eyes glinted in person in a way he hoped his own did. The dimples her emerging smile drew out of her cheeks mirrored his own. The familiarity was not a product of images, but of blood.
           “The lily’s beauty is substantial. It endures until the final petal falls. Mine lasted 77 years. We’re both dandelions now.”
           Sean only half-heard the old man, like the lyrics to a song playing in a coffee shop. He stood up, hugged his mother for the first time and wept with joy at this profound moment of simultaneous closure and opportunity. Suddenly, he turned back to apologize to the old man for ignoring him but the bench seat was empty. He invited his mother to sit down next to him.
           “I have to say,” his mother began, “it’s such a coincidence that you chose this spot to meet me. My dad – your grandfather – always used to tell the story of how he met your grandmother, Lily, on this very bench, almost 80 years ago. It must be fate.”

Marques Bullock is a hobby writer aspiring for a career change. He writes supernatural fiction and a satire opinion blog.