Daffodils

Jed stopped at his usual spot. He checked his pedometer, took a slug from his stainless steel water bottle, and looked around.  Daffodils. Thousands of them.

He closed his eyes and signed deeply. Last April he and Angie had gathered armfuls of the yellow blooms growing wild along the roads. He could almost hear her husky voice singing an old gospel song, “Brighten the Corner Where You Are,” while his whistle wove a complicated arpeggio around the melody.

“It was the best of days; it was the worst of days,” he misquoted to himself. When they returned to their tiny basement apartment, Angie filled every glass and jar they owned with daffodils. The sun straggled through their single window, turning the room into a golden fantasy world. They had loved each other in that goldenness—until the world crashed down on them both.

He woke up in the ICU three days later. He had broken ribs and a metal plate in his skull. And Angie was dead. The truck that had smashed through the wall had killed more than his wife. While his vision wasn’t always clear, months of therapy had made his body nearly whole again. But he still felt only half alive. “Oh, Angie,” he muttered, “You were my golden daffodil girl.”

He opened his eyes. The daffodils were nodding in the breeze—nodding and nodding. He swiped his hand across his eyes. Angie had nodded like that when she was trying to convince him of something important. His knees gave way and he found himself sitting on the macadam walkway. The flowers just continued nodding.

Stunned, he nodded back at the flowers. Tomorrow, he promised them. Tomorrow his new apartment would be filled with golden flowers—and Angie’s joyful presence.

293 word count

ID #896794