Daisy Chains

• Odessa Zubanov, Grade 5
• Short Story
• 2021

Slowly, gently, Lily closed her eyes. Almost instantly she drifted into a light sleep. Though her soft and peaceful slumber did not last. A hot and smoky haze blew over her, making her eyes flutter open. In the distance, through the gloom, Lily saw something that made her turn white with fear. Flames. Hot, burning flames, sparkling and creeping closer.
Being only eight candleflames had been scary enough, but the advancing red beast of a fire was more than that. Screaming she alerted both her parents of the coming danger. Through the growing smoke, the silhouette of her father appeared in the doorway as if out of thin air. But that was impossible, if anything, the air was getting thicker.
Hugging her father as he held her, Lily brushed away tears. He had just finished collecting her favourite teddy and picture book, although they had little time to spare, he made sure she would always have her favourite toys. Squinting through the smoke, he rushed her outdoors to safety. Lily’s mother was already there and was staring at home, that was crumbling into the clutches of the fire.
Bright dawn light struck the starry horizon, splitting it in two, separating the darkness from the ever growing light. Lily and her parents had been staying at their Aunt’s cottage on the top of a hill surrounded by daisies. They looked like a field of honey, or a swarm of bright yellow wasps. Lily’s heart was still drumming at the memory of the ashes and all the burnt memories. Even thinking of it brought tears to her eyes.
Lily sighed as though the tangles of grief that were growing inside would blow out with her breath. Tears still prickling her eyes she ran down the hill and flopped down on her back among the daisies. Staring at the sky the daisies towered above her like small suns gleaming with pride. “At home there were daisies.” Smiled Lily. “But now…they’d only be yellow stains on the charred footpath.” Suddenly the memory was not so happy.
At her old home Lily made daisy chains, and here there were certainly enough. Lily picked up a couple daisies. In her palm they looked droopy and sulky, not happy like she remembered. Her fingers were nimble, threading daisy stems together so smoothly they could have been needles. After her daisy chain was complete, it drooped, as though it had been watered by teardrops rather than the soothing raindrops that made rainbows.
Her next daisy chain was made a few days after, and somehow, she felt lighter, as though the daisy chain was less droopy each time. Slowly, gently, the daisies disappeared. Day by day, chain by chain, until there were only enough for one more chain.
Slowly, gently, Lily threaded the daisies. This was her hundredth chain. In her palm the daisy chain looked like a shining crown of stars, and inside she shone like the sun. It had taken one hundred daisy chains to rid the grief that had once rested upon her.
Never break a daisy chain, it takes a long time to mend, just like broken spirit.