Death For The Daffodils

by S.B. Watson

About the Author: S. B. Watson is a writer from Keizer, Oregon. When he’s not spending time with his family, practicing historic English quarterstaff-fighting techniques, or playing Bluegrass guitar, he can be found in his library, constructing mystery novels and writing peculiar pieces of short fiction.

Excerpt

He came every morning with water and tools. He leaned down close to us, and his hands were gentle as they pulled the weeds from our roots and churned the moist clumps of soil loose, spreading it evenly across our bed. In the morning, when the sun hadn’t risen, he’d kneel and bend his back down, and gently pour the water between our stalks, and it was good water. Cool, and rich, and its minerals soaked down to my very roots.

Every morning he came, and every morning he would talk to us, and cry, and my head was lowered because it was still early and I hadn’t the strength to raise it up and look into his face. But when the sun broke the horizon, and I could feel my green cells begin to move, I would try, just for him. I would look up, into the sun, and every morning I would see his face as he stood back up, and I would see the tears that salted my bed still wet on his cheeks.

This was the face that said such things to us in the morning. The face with the voice like warm leaves in a bitter cold. The face that gently cared for my soil, that gave me water on dry days. That had planted me in my bed, and cared for me every day.

Was this love? He talked of love, every morning, as he cried his warm tears and his rough hands gently brushed my leaves. He talked of many things. Of hate, of regret, of sadness, of loneliness. But I didn’t understand. I had the sun in the day, I slept at night, and I had him in the morning. What more to life was there?

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