Daisy
Daisies break beneath a pink Croc. A little girl squints in the sun. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Like a reckless giant, the little girl squishes the garden, her small feet like a stampede over a community of flowers. Each stem is a tree, each bud is a home, each bee is a bus, each ant is a person; a little girl wants to feel big. A white door creaks open slowly, a mother’s face peering out. Her brow furrows with disapproval, but the unflinching gaze from her emerald eyes indicates that this has happened before. The little girl hears shuffling feet, then her mom reappears with crimson garden gloves, a rustic shovel, and five packets of daisies tucked into an aluminium pail. Two weeks ago, there were eight packets. The little girl hides behind a fruit laden lemon tree, not wanting to see her mom's crestfallen face. But her bright blue eyes peek through the gaps in the branches. A spot of blue in a sea of yellow. What she destroys she knows she will see her mom fix; it’s beautiful how something can be mended by loving hands.
Click. The mother opens her daughter’s pink, sparkly lunch box, placing a ham and cheese sandwich, a juice box, and a container of plump strawberries in neat order. The mother closes the lunchbox, bending down to hand it to her daughter. She kisses her on the forehead. The little girl smiles.
The sound of a school bus echoes outside. The mother turns, walking her daughter out the front door. Eyes welling with tears, the little girl looks back to her mom. She fidgets with her pink skirt as her knees wobble. The mother gives a reassuring but forced smile. Giving one final wave, the little girl trudges up the school bus stairs, disappearing once again into a sea of yellow.
Click. Crushed strawberries, a footprint in the ham and cheese sandwich, and a flattened juice box. The little girl’s lunch is smashed. Again. The mother picks up two shovels and the packets of daisy seeds, and walks out to her garden. Laying on the flower beds, the little girl
sniffles, tears streaming down her freckled cheeks. The work of elementary school bullies: they destroy her lunch, she destroys her daisies.
The mother sits next to her daughter, stroking her golden tendrils of hair. Without words, she hands the daughter a shovel. The mother sticks the shovel into the ground, lifts up a scoop of earth, carefully lays down two daisy seeds, then smooths the dirt back so it looks like there was never a hole. The mother gently guides her daughter’s hands. Dig, drop, bury, smooth over. The little girl scoops up small spoonfuls of dirt, not yet as strong as her mom. She drops two daisy seeds into the ground, and carefully pats the dirt back on top. Her hands get dirty as she continues, but she doesn’t mind the messiness of the soil. The little girl giggles and plants more daisies. A mother teaches a daughter how to nurture.
Click. The mother opens a lunchbox, placing a ham and cheese sandwich, a juicebox, a container of strawberries, and a daisy in neat order. She pulls out a Sharpie and post-it note from the cupboard, wrinkling her nose for a moment at the pungent smell of the pen. Then she smiles, writing in simple lettering “I love my Daisy.” She sticks the note to the container of strawberries. Her pain is channeled into purpose. Click.
Daisy runs up to her mom, hugging her tightly before the school bus arrives. They walk out through the garden, the seeds they planted the day before patiently waiting for sunshine and time to make them grow. A seamless partnership of delicacy and strength, a quiet testament to the power of caring. Together, how to mend instead of break.
Cover Photo by Irina Iriser. Edited by Madison Case.