Dandelion seeds drifted along the gentle summer breeze. Children laughed as they blew puff balls, then ran and jumped to catch the soft, white parasols that carried the tiny seeds.
Henry was mowing the grass when the first seed floated past.
“Hey, you kids! Stop blowing dandelion seeds into my yard,” he yelled at the neighbor children.
“Henry, be nice,” said Dora, his wife. She was in the garden picking strawberries.
“I’ll be nice when they stop messing up my yard,” said Henry.
“Don’t you remember when you were young? You probably did the same thing,” said Dora.
“Sure, but that was play. These kids today, they’re up to no good,” Henry said to Dora, but also loudly enough so the next door children could hear.
“Listen to you. Have you completely forgotten the innocence of youth?” said Dora.
“I lost that a long time ago. I grew out of that into the sarcasm to adolescence, then the cynicism of young adulthood, and now I’m in the crotchetiness of middle age,” said Henry proudly.
“What comes next?” said Dora as she bit into a freshly picked strawberry.
“The dementia of old age. Then I might appreciate blowing dandelion seeds into the air again,” said Henry. He reached out to catch a seed that was surfing past his head. He missed. He made another swipe. It swooped just beyond his grasp. He lunged to keep it from landing on the lawn but tripped into the azalea bush.
Dora laughed. “It looks like early onset to me,” she said.