Heatherly Falling

Petal One

Dedicated to Tara676, who is more beautiful than the blanket of stars above.

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P E T A L   O N E

DAISY

/ˈdeɪzi/

innocence, purity, motherhood, and new beginnings

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SITTING ON THE handrail of the rusty bridge, I rested my hands lightly onto the cold metal. My legs dangled freely in the summer air as a swirl of solace danced along my shoulder-length locks. I eyed the stretches of turquoise below; its infinite depth turning darker and darker as I wondered what it was like to fall into that abyss.

Its color reminded me of Ma's eyes. How gently and calming they always seemed to be like she knew everything was going be alright. She just knew, and she wasn't wrong. With her, I didn't wake up feeling edgy; dragging my body that was heavy with emptiness as I started my day with a tired heart. I wasn't slacking off in school, isolating myself from the rest, allowing my grades to slip. I wasn't walking on a thin sheet of ice that was ready to crack any second, drowning myself in the sea of my thoughts. I wasn't. All because of Claira Haze. All for her.

And I wished she stayed longer.

The sun hovered above the horizon, turning the sky into a magnificent hue of warmth. I gazed at the patches of golden clouds above, wanting to grasp a hold of it, so that maybe my insides wouldn't feel so empty. Sighing, I hopped off the handrail, dropping my legs onto the cement. I picked up my bagpack that laid on the ground, swinging it over my shoulder, and made my way home.

Twisting the knob, I headed inside, kicking my shoes off by the door. The house was quiet; its sense of comfort had already faded. But who am I supposed to blame for that? It's a home to two heartbroken souls; one buried himself in mountains of paperwork while the other floated aimlessly through her day.

Walking wearily towards the living room, I scanned the neat area that was untouched. The curtains were pulled to the side, unleashing the sight of the golden sunset, making me think back to how Ma would sit on the piano bench by the window. She would have a brush in hand, gliding it over the canvas, painting my dad who'll look at her with his eyes twinkling, as though he had seen such an angle in his life.

He would memorize her long auburn hair that was pulled into a low bun, her half-smiles, and ocean eyes. He would mesmerize her pale complexion, seeing stars within her freckles that dispersed faintly on the bridge of her nose.

I remember I laid on the couch, staring at them from afar, imprinting the moment into my head, feeling my heart blossomed with tenderness from the way they looked at one another. I remembered how my lips curved up, adoring the sight of them both as I hold a camera and snapped a photo that now hung above the onyx piano.

As beautiful as the memory was, I couldn't help but felt a throb of agonizing hurt. My hand clenched tightly at my sides, internally begging to see her once more. But I couldn't. I simply couldn't because she was no longer here.

I sighed, shaking my head as I shrugged off the thoughts.

Streams of orange light illuminated from the kitchen as sounds of bowls clacked against one another. I walked towards the noise and oddly, I saw my dad preparing dinner. His hazel eyes were heavy with exhaustion as they met mine.

"Dinner is done, Ella," he said, his tone sounding distant as he adjusted the navy tie that hung loosely around the collar of his shirt. My gaze flickered to his stubble beard that was recently shaved. It was only yesterday that they were long.

Dropping onto one of the chairs, I looked down at my plate of spaghetti. My dad took a seat in front of me, glancing over with a hint of longingness. I knew my similar features reminded him of her. The only difference was our hair which mine was dark, complementing with his.

Silence fell between us as we ate. Its walls were high, almost unreachable, caging us in the thoughts of our own. My eyes were glued to the picture that hung in the distance. The photo of us three - our smiles everlasting - was now a memory that only brought pain.

Ma had her arms outstretched, balancing an amateur cake - dad and I made - on her hands that had a badly written Happy Mother's day sprawling at the center. The corners of her eyes wrinkled as she tilted her head up, laughing with my dad, who was at the side of the frame. He had an arm slung over her shoulder, pulling her close as he angled the camera their way, catching a glimpse of me in the background; a grin plastered onto my face. At the top, May 9, 2019, was printed in bold, a reminder that it was exactly from a year ago.

Below the photo stood a vase of daisies, blooming in a beautiful shade of white. Flowers had always been what she painted of most, and daisies were certainly her favorites.

A few months ago, I didn't understand what was so special about them. They were small and fragile - wilted-looking almost - unlike roses and orchids. So I asked her, my eyes filled with curiosity as 15-year-old me stared at the side of her face. She continued to gaze at the midnight sky, searching for something within the darkness. As both of us sat on the grass of our backyard, the wind flew by and the leaves rustled; a comfortable silence fell between us. After a few moments, she turned, her eyes fell onto me. With a gentle tone, she answered, "Sometimes, it's the little things that are not loved enough."

I moved my attention from the daisies to my dad, whose dark hair fell untidily over his forehead. His dull hazel eyes bore onto the half-eaten meal before him - no longer attempting to take another bite. Despite it being his day off, he wore his working attire. His white button-up shirt wasn't ironed like they were before.

He flickered his attention to me, and through his eyes, I saw the hurt and pain and longing he failed to cover up. It was what I saw for the past three months. It was what I saw that night in the hospital. The both of us were standing a couple of feet away, watching a nurse turn off Ma's ventilator, cutting her air supply short.

I remembered staring at her unconscious angelic body that laid helpless on her deathbed. My eyes were glued to her icy skin, tracing her slender arm to her parted lips. I remembered my dad hugging me tight like he knew her last breath meant the beginning of my shattered self. And he was trying to prevent that. He was trying to hug my pieces together, even though my fragments will hurt him. They'll pierce deeply into his heart, causing him to bleed until there is no more, until he is weak and hollow, and all he'll feel is numbness.

Yet he kept his tough facade on, wanting to stand strong for me, wanting to be there for me. But the moment I looked into his alamort eyes, I saw that he was struggling to stay on his feet, and he was barely holding on. So instead, I watched him fall apart.

"Are you going to visit her?" I asked softly, despite knowing the answer would be no.

He remained silent, slowly dropping his fork onto the ceramic plate. There was hesitance swimming in his eyes, and for a second, I felt hopeful. But the moment he shook his head - abruptly standing up with his plate in hand, heading to the sink - disappointment quickly flooded into me.

"I'm sorry, Ella." He sent me a weak smile, the one that I've gotten used to seeing lately. "I will eventually." He walked away to his office; his footsteps faded, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I was saddened; my momentary expectation was completely crushed. I stared at the white petals, contemplating whether I should visit her, unsure if I was ready. Quickly making up my mind, I placed my plate into the sink, deciding that I wanted to.

And so, I needed some daisies.