I love it when the housing association doesn’t cut the grass. I hear the rumbling and growling of voices around the neighborhood. They get angry. They call the association and demand they send out a guy to cut the grass immediately. The dandelions are growing wild. They will spread into their oh-so-neat gardens …

I love the dandelions, strong and high and yellow, like tiny triumphant suns, stretching their heads toward the sky. The grass has grown into tuffs and bumps, uneven, reaching half up my shins. The various flowers finally gaining room in this green bed, the bumblebees finding food and hiding spots, navigating between the tuffs, humming happily.

When the housing association finally sends the man, everything’s gone. It’s like Farewell to Shady Glade. Did you read that? It hurts every time and reminds me that at heart I haven’t changed one bit since I was a child.

The rebel part of me. The warrior. Peter, Julian, they’re still right there, wanting to do right, wanting to save the world. Funny how I was always Peter or Julian, never Lucy or Anne, never worn to play the princess.

On the horizon, I see no Aslan coming to help save the dandelions. I’m on my own with this one. The sword is deep in the drawer, I fight another kind of battle these day

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