Daisies droop, dying over the edge of the hurricane glass,
the one with the hotel logo on it from our family vacation last October.
Some of them with broken stems, some jut out in odd
directions, some curl around themselves to get a better view of the light.
I am trying to become the kind of girl who brings herself
daisies.
On Mother's Day, I set into the side yard with red-handled
scissors. The blades are sticky with popsicle residue and I guess these are all
the signs of summer before me. White pedals crawled with aphids and
spiders, yellow pollen torturous, but allergies or not, sometimes a girl's just
gotta have flowers.
I gathered two bundles, one for the hurricane glass and one
for the porch deck, in a red polka-dotted water bottle. Those were dead by
Tuesday, even with the air and the wind and the sunshine pouring upon them. The
ones inside survive, barely, but they're here, rag-tag and awkward and a lot
like me.
Writing is what writing does…and writing, today, is bringing
myself literary daisies, quietly rejoicing in all the signs of summer.
