Winter Flowers

1. A flower plucked too soon

      Black. It surrounds us, we are clothed in it and I can almost feel it in the air, battling with the nectar of the flowers grouped a few feet away from us. The pews, floor and walls of the altar are all made of shiny black wood that resonate with the bleakness of my mind.

The oak doors of the St. Charles church open every several minutes but I do not turn around. The service is already on but I know a few more people are still on their way. Clayview has never known tragedy as this. They will be here for the flower that was plucked too soon, for the ones left behind, incomplete.

I try to focus, steady my eyes. I look at her portrait guarded by a small forest of daisies. She hated daisies, which was ironic seeing as she was named after them. The picture in the frame was mom's choice, she said it shows Daisy in her true element, doing what she loved.

It is true in a way, Daisy loved being a cheerleader, as long as she was top girl. I can hear the noisy sniffles from her squad mates, maybe being cheer captain was worth more than dating the quarterback.

The coffin is black too, like almost everything else. Looking at it, I know she'd hate her own funeral.

    There is someone at the pulpit. The fifth or seventh I'm not sure. Another familiar face that I can't name, spewing kind words that we only remember to say at things like this. At the funeral of a teenager we realize we had either judged too hard, spread rumors about or hadn't been very nice to.

"Daisy was a very sweet person_"

Kind lies.

I find myself zoning out again, it's something I have been doing a lot lately. My body feels like a vessel that anchors me while my mind wanders in empty spaces.

"Rose".

Chills run up my spine from the cold touch to my bare knee. I turn to my left to behold the face of my best friend, our best friend, Antoniette Campbell. Sandwiched by my sister Dahlia and I.

"They are closing the casket. Let's go see your sister one last time".

My mother's voice is soft but it doesn't hold any warmth. I want to tell her that it will not be the last time. I will see her everytime I pass by reflective glass, everytime I look in the mirror and everytime I look at Dahlia but all I do is rise and walk with the rest of my family to the open casket.

   My moms steps aren't as confident as I've always known them to be. She wavers a bit but my dad has a dead grip on her waist, gently guiding her to their daughter's new home before it gets delivered to ants and worms. She reaches out to touch Daisy and I watch from behind her, waiting for Daisy to swat it away as she always does but that doesn't happen. My mom gets a last feel of her daughter's skin and my dad lead her back to our seat as the tears escape her eyes for the millionth time.

  I stand there for a while, unsure of what to do until I feel lean fingers slip into mine and turn to look at light brown eyes that mirror mine almost perfectly. With our matching dresses from when we were thirteen and had to attend granny's funeral, she could be my reflection but she has her chestnut hair in a tight pony as she usually does.

She give my hand a tiny squeeze and with identical nods, we approach the last piece in our puzzle. I had convinced myself that I was prepared but now I doubt it.

I take two steps that feel like nine, gripping Dahlia's hand and when we look down at the open box, I gasp. Not from her beauty but the sudden rush of emotions I get when I look at her closed lid and realize that regardless of the redness of her hair, the corpse looks exactly like me.

🌼

   The last moments of Daisy's life were spent with the people she loved the most, her sisters and her best friend.