The prairie breeze slips through my hair, it blows my face with long strikes. The sky is light, it’s stretched clouds looking like lambs wool.
“Marie?” I call. My little sister with her white-blond hair turns to me, a wide smile stretched across her pale face. Her ittle pink jacket stands out against the whiteness of the seeding dandelions.
“Shall we go inside?” I ask, the coldness setting into my skin.
“No,” She tells me, as she shakes her head.
“But it’s cold hun,” I reply. “Lets go warm up by the fire,”
“No,” she repeats, her voice firm. For only a five year old she almost always knows what she wants. She lets her gaze rest on the white dandelions. “Look at all these wishes,”
“What?” I ask, for I am not sure I have heard her correctly.
“The wishes!” she repeats louder. I cock my head to the side, utterly puzzled. She points to the dandelions. Suddenly I get it.
“Ah yes, the wishes,” I sigh. I hold one to my mouth and blow the seeds of the stem. They are carried away, over the field of “wishes”