I twirled the syllables around my head as I collected them – dandelion, dandelion, dandelion. Earlier that day, we had looked up the word in the big dictionary underneath Billy’s bed. He explained that it came from the French term – dents de lion – lion’s teeth. The dandelion began as a pretty thing and the petals of its skirt were pointy and yellow like a tutu. ‘This is its daytime dress but the flower eventually needs to go to sleep. It withers and looks tired and haggard and just when you think its time is up’ – Billy held up his fist – ‘it turns into a clock.’ He uncurled his fingers and
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