By Chelsea Allen
I watch as our five-year-old picks up daisies for you from the garden, because they are your favourites, she believes. Gently plucking them from their stems—a way she has decided neither the flower nor the stem is hurt.
“Here, Mum, these are your favourites.”
“Were, Daisy.”
She doesn’t look up from your headstone. I curse myself.
“No, Dad,” she says firmly, her voice thick with tears. “Are!”
I bend down and hug her so she doesn’t see me crying. I don’t tell her it hurts the worst when you pluck it gently. You think you’re prepared, but you never are.
Heartbreaking story very well told.
Thank you Bud.
Very moving story.
Thank you for your kind words, Michele.