Dead Daffodils

The British daffodils I bought for 0.99p are dead. They’ve shrunk and withered and yet, they’re still sitting on my windowsill and every time I walk towards the apartment, I look up in search of my window with the dead daffodils. After all this time, I should probably throw them out but it’s just like me to cling to dead things and hope that they’ll come back to life. 

I’ve sat at this desk for the past two weeks, watching the lights in the windows across from me turn on and off, watching the sky wake up, watching the cat swish its tail, watching people going away and coming back. The vase of daffodils have been there the whole time and at some point, the flowers died. I didn’t notice them dying until they were dead. That’s often the way death works. No matter how prepared you are, it still comes as a nasty shock. 

Sadly, a lot of the daffodils I used to see in the parks have died too. Their golden heads have disappeared and probably in a few days, new flowers will have taken their place. Because, of course, time doesn’t stop and things keep dying and things keep coming back to life. 

I bought the daffodils in the first place because I am attracted to bright and cheerful things and because I aspire to be bright and cheerful. Also because I promised myself I’d always have flowers in the house. It’s funny how you make promises to yourself when you are young and it’s funny how some of them you actually keep.  

Dead daffodils are actually not so depressing to me because they represent the kind of far off happiness I thought I would have ‘someday’ when, in fact, someday is today and I am happy now. It doesn’t matter that they’re dead because they’re mine. The spring sun fades but even so, dead daffodils continue to make me believe in bright things. 

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