Deep in the Meadow

Sheltered Daisy Chains

        Mockingjays are singing a four-note tune, and my brother Rye and I are playing in the lush meadow behind our house. Our mom and dad are close by, standing under a swaying willow tree. A slight breeze carries the soft scent of dewy grass and damp flowers beneath my freckled nose as I inhale. It tickles and I sneeze.

            I am trying to teach Rye how to make a daisy chain, like our mother taught me, but his little uncoordinated fingers can’t tie such small knots. He gets frustrated and tears his apart, then proceeds to happily pluck daisies from the ground and throw them at me. I manage to make mine. It’s a bit sloppy and the daisies starting to turn mushy and die, so I give it to him. He looks at it for a second, then throws it at me, and laughs mischievously.

Giggling, we start running towards our parents; my dark brown braids thumping against my back with every stride, and Rye’s long blonde curls waving in the wind. His little toddler legs can’t keep up with me, so I carry him like a sack of potatoes the rest of the way.

As we approach, my father gets that far away look in his eyes, like he can’t see what’s right in front of his nose. He does this a lot and tells us not to worry about it, that it’s nothing. The fact that he zones out doesn’t scare me. It’s the pure terror behind his irises. His pupils dilate, then he gets very tense, and his eyes turn gray as opposed to their usual bright blue. Thankfully, Mom can sense these episodes. She looks up at him, grabs his hand and squeezes. He even squeezes back.

I’ve been noticing these strange exchanges between my parents even more then I did when I was younger, being ignorant to anything that didn’t have to do with my own childish needs. The blackouts have become rare, but are still obvious.

When the clouds of fear covering my father’s face disappear and he returns to normal, I begin to speak. “Dad, are you alright?” I ask, still holding Rye on my hip. My parents glance at each other nervously, gray orbs meeting blue. It’s not like that’s the first time I’ve asked. I can hear my mother screaming at night, and sometimes she just stares aimlessly at the meadow we play in, face etched with so much pain I can hardly stand to look. Then of course, my father’s blackouts that happen every now and then are pretty noticeable as well. They don’t even bother to play dumb anymore.

            “Willow, sometimes I forget where I am and think back to the past. It only happens every once in a while. I’m okay now,” my father says, his mouth curving up into a faint smile meant, I guess, for reassurance. I notice that my parents are still holding hands. I want to ask why the flashbacks are so overpowering, and why all of this terror invades our home, but I don’t. Instead, I kiss them both on the cheek, and, as a family, we walk back towards the house.