Daffodils

Daffodils, specifically yellow ones. They’re bright like sunshine, scattered across yards and the roadside for all to see come the warmer temperatures of spring. Like little bursts of color against the brown ombre that is still the ground as it grasps to the weakening legs of winter. The flowers sprout from the cold death and breathe life back to various small areas before too fading to the harsher summer weather. Just as quickly as they come, they die. Just the release I’ve wished for for over a decade now.

 At the home I so loved, there wasn’t just a small patch on the side of the road, instead a field of them bloomed every year. I only encountered them twice in our stay there as we never made any trek in one home a long one, this was actually the longest and happiest. I’m not sure why this memory lingers but I can attribute to many things and this being the last home I was in before I really noticed things going awry in my life. The final safe haven of my ignorance to the happenings around me. That little field was in such contrast to the chaos I’d recently come to note, with it’s beaming wave of greens and golds. It was so incredibly beautiful that to this day it still lives on in my thoughts, like a painting. 

We moved in around late January I believe, my sister just having met a new man and the queen losing yet another job. We ran here in an effort to settle some time without the worry of a mortgage, the times then were so different. I vividly recall so many terrifying things at this home, so many brutalities to a mere child. Nothing was physical yet but the mental strain was enough to leave me scarred to this day. 

This was the home in-witch the queen murdered a litter of my sweet puppies with a shotgun on a stump out back, giving a reason of their own sickness as the cause. I now know it was because we were moving and she needed them gone. This was the home where I helped my sister and her boyfriend siphon gas through a water hose in to cans so she could have enough to go buy her drugs. The burning feel of gas on my lips and the burning in my mouth, still lingering all these years later. This was the home where I watched the queen release her Great Dane to maul my beloved goat Rosy for no real reason given. His massive jaws slinging her by her throat left me in utter horror, unable to even process the chain of events. This was the home where I went out in to the woods and imagined in great detail what it would be like to become part of the forest, let the bugs eat my rotting flesh. This was the home where the king told me horrible stories of my potential drowning in the murky pond and of the monsters that lay just beneath the surface, ready to eat horrid children like myself. The nightmares about this water still haunt my adult dreams, plaguing me with my inevitable. This home was where I thought I heard things in my closet but was scolded for being an idiot to the point of almost losing my voice. This was the home where so many atrocities happened to me, the ones I recall the easiest. 

In my futile attempts at easy escape I found myself drawn to the back of the property come spring. Just past the decaying chicken coop was a line of tree and a little walk lead you to an open field absolutely covered in yellow daffodils. It was expansive, almost like something you would see in a child’s film. If the memory wasn’t so precise, I’d question myself even. One look, one deep breath and the golden paradise set me free until sundown. 

My little legs would easily dance between the stalks, careful not to break a single one, until I reached the center. There I would find a near empty patch and take my seat, content to look out at the haze of incoming spring. The signal that soon I could stay outside longer without fear of catching a tremble. 

Eventually following these little specks of sunshine I came across the place I’d call my retreat for the rest of our stay. The grove, that field. Down an overgrown path to the right of the property was a small field with branches that hung over it like an arch, the roots massive enough for me to sit comfortably on. Once my field of sunlight went to rest for the warmer months, I would spend my afternoons there pondering things I can’t even begin to recollect. It was so quiet there, only the sound of the wind making its way through. 

A handful of years ago I decided if I were to end my own suffering, this is where I would go. To the first safe place I remember, the first place of light I was able to ground myself in. It needs to be the last place I am when I go, if I so choose to finally stop the pain by my own hand. It would be the most control I’ve ever taken over my destiny and so many nights, it’s the only thing behind my eyes. That field welcoming me home with its green grassy arms and the elegantly yellow daffodils beckoning me for one last afternoon daydream with them. 

Recently it’s gotten nicer outside, the sweaters finally going on temporary pause as the cold slinks away. Which means potting my plants again. I went to the local hardware store for dirt and spotted a purple pot filled with daffodils and all of a sudden so many memories came flooding back. Like a train hitting my guts I felt such an intense nostalgia, a want to be back “home.” My legs shook when I stepped towards the display but my heart turned me around, leaving my mind to mull over the sudden wash of horrid things. And the last peaceful one, one that’s kept me full of solace. 

After that day as I drive I see them littered all over the side of the road and in yards, the bursts of bright color pulling my eyes to them. In a way the things I am dredging up from my self-inflected repression make me ill but just seeing them gives my a brief pause of calm. Just as they did when I was a lost little child facing the vicious king and queen, the daffodils still give my entirety a moments pause before reality comes crashing back down. The water is muddy, the child is drowning, the world is falling apart, and just a second of fresh air is all she needs to keep fighting.

 I keep fighting through the war inside, the one that urges my sane side to lay down its weapons and surrender to death. I keep fighting so maybe one day I can plant these daffodils in my own garden and not have to fight a bad taste in my mouth and just see them as they are. Regular flowers that lead a little girl to having a little more sun in her life. Not the pause that gives enough breath before stealing it all away.