Dear Daisy

Ok, so I'm not sure about this one. I started to write it on the back of a postcard, and when that got filled with my scribblings I basically had the bones of this. Anyway, tell me what you think!

-----------------

Dear Daisy,

I thought of you again today. It was that time when we went fishing, and you caught the smallest fish in the river. Or so I said, anyway. You wouldn’t kill it; you told me that it looked too intelligent. I joked that the small ones are always the cleverest. You smiled the secret smile that I loved and gently put the fish back in the river. “He’ll have a story to tell”, you murmured. “Nobody should be taken without them wanting it.” I didn’t know what you were thinking then, your face was blank and your eyes were far away from me. I still don’t know what you were thinking.

Dear Daisy,

I went star watching last night. I lay outside in the field on the red, ragged rug that you always used. I put your binoculars to my eyes and saw the whole sky ablaze with pinpricks of blinding white light. I managed to name most of the constellations, and I recorded some of the positions in the little black notebook that you called My Universe. You always said that the night sky was beautiful; you could look at it for hours on end. I was always too busy looking at you.

Dear Daisy,

I visited your parents today. They still don’t like me much. Your mum sat straight-backed, with her lips set in a disapproving thin line. Your dad’s eyebrows were knotted together in the middle of his lined forehead. I left pretty quickly; they didn’t want to see me. But they’re looking after your cat well; she’s fatter than she ever was. Your sister was nicer, she hugged me at least. But it was harder than I thought. It’s all harder than I thought.

Dear Daisy,

I can’t stop writing to you. My days, hours and minutes seem to revolve around the times when I pick up the nearest pencil and write to you. I never write your letters in pen; you used to hate the sound on the nib scratching against the paper. And pencil is reversible. With pencil, if something goes wrong then you can erase it and start again. Pen just stays on the page, and even if you cross it out then the memory and stain of it still remains. I prefer pencils.

Dear Daisy,

Nothing interesting happened today. I woke up later than I ever have done. You would have liked that, I think. You always got up later than me. I used to tease you about it. “The early bird gets the worm.” “Ah,” you’d always reply, your mouth smiling sleepily and your eyes already drifting close again, “But the second mouse gets the cheese.”

You weren’t a mouse, you weren’t a worm either. You were something all unto yourself.

Dear Daisy,

It’s wintry here today. The frost lingers on my worn down limbs and my blood freezes in my veins. I am cold, so cold. Because what am I without my spring and summer?

Dear Daisy,

I try to imagine you as you were. I try to think of your cheeks flushed with perpetual happiness and your mouth wide and smiling. I try to remember the life that we had together, rather than the death that tore us apart. But whenever I sleep then you slip into my dreams. Your cheekbones are hollow and your eyes are sunken into your head and surrounded by rings of exhaustion and pain. Your mouth is twisted into the grimace of agony that I so often saw etched into your features. You reach out to me, but I can never touch you. Then I wake up and force myself to forget.

Dear Daisy,

Our song came on the radio today. I sang along to it, every single word, with hot, salty tears rolling down my cheeks.

Dear Daisy,

I’m glad that you smiled once more in the end. Your hand moved to touch mine and I jumped, startled from the restless sleep that I had drifted into sitting beside your bed. The corners of your lips lifted up and your fingers stroked my palm softly. Did you know who I was? I think that you did. I think that in those last few moments your head cleared of all pain and you were free again. Death freed you from your captivity to the endless agony that life was putting you through. I’m glad about that, at least.

Dear Daisy,

I think I’m going to stop now. The pile of letters to you, letters that you’ll never see, are just lying on the table. Every time I laugh or cry my fingers itch for a pencil so that I can tell you about it. Every time I do something new, every time I get out of bed in the morning I want to tell you. The letters are keeping you tied to this world, and I know that you hated to be tied down. I think, I hope, that if I try to live again then maybe I’ll be able to feel the warmth of the sun on my face in the mornings. I know that if I force myself away from the letters that I read and re-read I might be able to look at the stars without just seeing your face. I will always love you, but loving you didn’t stop Death. And no matter how hard I hold onto that love, it will never be enough to bring you back.

Goodbye, Daisy.