Clara McCarthy, aged sixteen, had come to spend the summer at her Grandmother’s house. She would spend the summer venturing in the backwoods, and the woods always surprised her though she had wandered aimlessly through them countless times. She loved the endless blue expanse above her, the cool breeze drifting through the trees giving rise to a gentle flutter and the deafening silence of the woods. Today, she set out as always, in search of the unknown. She heard gushing water and the sight of the calm, undulating stream, shimmering in the golden sunlight, entered her mind. She got up, and made her way towards the stream, thrusting both her hands into the clear water, allowing the current to travel up her arms. The water was so incredibly stimulating. She sat among the trees with the everchanging leaves, and gazed at the other side of the stream bank.
Then she saw something she had never noticed before- a tree, apart from the rest. She was feeling unusually adventurous today, so she got up and made her way to the other bank. The cold water crept into her shoes and chilled her feet but she didn’t mind it. On reaching the other bank, she tilted her head up to get a good look at the tree. It was very evidently a Sycamore tree. It had a flamboyant canopy of flames with its brilliant yellow, orange and red leaves. The tree trunk was brittle but inexplicably resilient at the same time, crumbling beneath her touch. On the naked trunk, in neat handwriting, were engraved the words “to the place where daises grow wild.”
These words reverberated in Clara’s mind as she approached the house. She saw her grandmother trimming foliage from the strawberry bushes near the porch.
Clara said,” I crossed the stream today.”
Her grandmother looked at her with a slight frown and said, “Well, how was it?”
Clara described everything she saw in great detail.
Her grandmother then stared into the distance, evidently reminiscing, and a slight sadness crept into her façade. She said,” I remember that Sycamore tree. There is a small cottage, now empty, not too far from that tree. An old lady used to live there all alone. Her name was Anastacia. We called her Annie. The Sycamore tree was hers you see. She died a few years ago. Succumbed to her old age. She was buried near the Sycamore tree as it was her habit to lounge in its shade on her better days. During the last days of her life, she constantly muttered the words- ‘the place where daisies grow wild.’ None of us ever understood what it meant but we knew it was important to her. So, we engraved it on the tree trunk.”
Clara failed to stop thinking about what her grandmother had said.
The next day, Clara awoke early. The house was silent. She left a note for her grandmother and slipped out through the backdoor. She crossed over to the other bank of the stream, feeling the familiar crunch of leaves underneath her feet. She meandered through the chaos of green and orange and purple until she saw it. Nestled between cherry blossoms, was a small cottage. It had two stairs leading up to the front deck of the porch. It was simple, yet elegant. She walked up to the front door. The walls had ivy growing on them. The balustrade was caked with dust. There were two windows on either side of the front door but they had turned translucent over the years. Clara gave the front door a shove and it instantly gave way with a loud creak. The interiors were beautiful with plush furniture, though covered in dust and cobwebs. The walls were painted a pale blue. Everything seemed as if it had been untouched for years.
On the mantle, Clara saw, was a photograph of the old lady. She had sad eyes but a broad smile. Clara allowed herself to stare for a while, then walked outside the house, gently shutting the door behind her. Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain in her right foot and saw a nail jutting out the floorboard. She tried to push the nail into the floorboard with her shoe but it didn’t budge. It was bent at an odd angle. Digging her nails into the margins of the floorboard, she pried it open. Under it, she saw a little scarlet coloured box. She opened the box and inside was a spare key, a pocket-sized leather-bound diary and a small note. She picked up the note and set the rest aside. It was yellowing and dusty. Inside the note, carefully folded was a daisy. The daisy was shrivelled, deprived of sun and withering away. Clara carefully placed the flower back into the box and read-
17th November,1917-
Bombs and missiles rain down. We run and run as fast as we can. Thomas is ahead of me and I am struggling to keep up. Gunshots, fire and explosions scream through the air. Thomas stumbles and falls. Shrapnel pierces his leg and he lets out a sharp cry. I frantically try to help him. He is unable to get up. Debris rains down all around us. He thrusts a daisy into my hand and says, “Run Annie! Run as far as God has any ground. Someday we will go to the place where daisies grow wild. I promise.” I give his hand a tight squeeze and I run. That is the last I ever saw of my brother Thomas. He was not just my brother, but my best friend. We were only children then. I still remember how ephemeral that moment was and yet it felt like hours. Our whole lives flashed in front of me. The strawberry fields where Tommy and I played hide and seek, the adventures we went on, the way we would steal cake from the pantry when all were asleep, the days in the sun before the war…
My memory is failing me and I am struggling to hold onto my thoughts. That is why I am inking it, inking the moment that has been forgotten by many but to me, it feels like it happened yesterday. I will never forget you Tommy. Not now, not in a million years, not ever. I will find the place where the daisies grow wild Tommy, I promise.
~ Annie
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