Daffodils

• Jenny Dickson, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2013

The strong wind ruffled her hair, her clothing; pulling all her thoughts away. The aggressiveness of it whipping her frail little body, lashing at her insides, seemed like a punishment. As a consequence of what she had done the world had decided to unleash all of its ferocity on her. It took all of her strength to stay standing.

The constant beating was tearing through her limbs and her knees buckled wildly. She sunk to the ground, meekly covering her head with her hands to protect herself the best she could.

The warm salty tears fleeing from her face pooled in a little lake on the ground. They quivered violently on the shaky earth, trembling on the bare patch of the garden where the daffodils once grew, rocking with the force of Mother Nature.

She watched her tears seep into the ground and imagined daffodils flowering once more, fertilised by the warmth and love found in her tears.

She could almost see the beautiful yellow petals opening again to bask in the glorious rays of sunlight streaming through the clouds. She could hear the faint echo of her mother’s laughter and the voice as soft as wind chimes that belonged to her sister. She could feel her father’s arms wrapped around her, his chin resting on her head, fingers tickling her belly, and strong know-all voice cracking silly jokes.

But, of course, none of that would ever happen again. Not after what she had done; the accident she had caused.

The daffodils in her imagination slowly withered away to nothing. All that was left was the ash filling the whole lot, covering the ground and flying through the wind. And the memories.

Spring always brought good things to her family. It was long afternoons in the sun, planting flowers and overflowing the garden bed. They all agreed daffodils were their favourite. The strong sturdy stem, holding the magnificent flower high in the air, the bees always circling, searching for the nectar; nothing bad could happen while they were in bloom.

Daffodils meant the end of the dark, dreary winter. It was the final escape of the bitter frosts and bone-chilling numbness of the cold. It meant a new beginning; a fresh start.
This time though, the daffodils had only brought grief, mishap and more icy wind.
But, as promised, the growth of the flowers had brought a new beginning. Another fresh start. Not a good one, but a beginning all the same.

As she trudged away from the catastrophic remains of her old life, she tucked the last daffodil left behind her ear. It was the only thing she had managed to save on that tragic day. Not her mother, her sister, or her father. Just a flower.

But it wasn’t really just a flower; it was a part of her; her family. It was a symbol of the good times they had shared. It was memories.

And memories were something that, unlike her family, would always live on.