Daisy's Garden ✓

7.

People say there's a calm before the storm. That just before the shit hits the fan, you get this really peaceful feeling and in a sense I suppose they are right.

When I saw Giovanni, it hadn't even occurred to me why he had returned. Neither had the fact that he hadn't actually returned but was merely visiting. A messenger of sorts. I had let him in and led him to the spare bedroom in silence like I was giving up the space I had been saving for him. As if he had returned to claim that emptiness.

Never would I have thought that he would come up to me, as I did my dishes - a chore that relaxed me and one I desperately needed after seeing him - that he would say to me something that would shatter my world in a single instance.

"Your father is dead, Declan."

He said is just like that, in a voice devoid of emotion while a roiling storm built up inside me. Unlike the forever repeated calm before the storm, I remembered the consecutive nights I'd spent shaking off nightmares, the intense feelings of claustrophobia and worry following me around, the near panic attack I'd had that afternoon and I acknowledged insensitively that people really needed to take the fucking rose-tinted glasses off and see the world for the trashcan it was. Because I wasn't calm, hadn't been for weeks, my sixth sense constan trying to warn me.

My mind, however, drew up a total blank. It was like all thoughts were wiped clear until not a single thing registered. In a daze, I stumbled out of the kitchen and as soon as I reached the lounge, I collapsed bonelessly on the sofa. I didn't panic like I usually did in tense situations. I suppose it made sense considering this wasn't a tense situation. It was catastrophic and I was silently drowning, piece by piece and all at once at the same time.

________________

My father was painting the tiny boat while I played in the sand nearby. Finishing the last coat, he called out cheerfully to me.

"You know who the little rouge is, Declan?" He asked, excited to reveal the answer to me. He was never very patient.

I shook my tiny head, long strands of my hair falling in my eyes. My eyes followed the unruly hair until I noticed that they had turned red under the harsh sunlight. I looked up at my father, smiling shyly.

He laughed, guessing my answer in my silent, patient face. "Yes, my dear boy, I named this after you."

_______________

When the drowning sensation worsened, it brought about a horrible ringing that made me clutch my ears in desperation. The room was spinning in large, lazy circles until everything became a ludicrous abstraction of itself. Giovanni sat grimly in an armchair by the balcony doors, gazing out desolately. Except he didn't look much like my friend. The couch beneath me rattled and I was drowning.

_______________

"What season do you like best?" I was almost eight and home for the summer.

My father looked up at me, his eyes faraway. He shook the distracted look out of his expression before focusing on me with that smile he reserved just for me. The brilliant, bright smile that reassured me always. This man loved me unconditionally.

"I'd have to say fall," he replied, leaning forward. "What about you?"

"I'm currently uncertain. It's between summer and winter."

He looked amused. "I think I know why you like either of those. The weather's your excuse for staying in all day."

I blushed in embarrassment at being caught. "Well, there's also the fruits."