Daisy's Creek

Her steps are slow as she approaches the creek. The bubbling of the water and the smell of wet moss takes her back to her childhood.

Back then, anything and everything seemed possible. They played in the water, her pants rolled up, Daisy's dress held up. The cool water helped to cool them on hot summer days. Their laughter echoed through the trees with only the birds and squirrels to hear.

The Creek is where they could be themselves. There they are freed from her drunk dad and Daisy 's fundamentalist religious  rules. They are just two little girls. 

They would sit and watch the fish, the little minnows darting through the current. The moss was always cool, no matter how hot it got. 

It is there that they shared their dreams.

"I'm not going to marry someone from the church," Daisy vows, "no matter what my parents say. I don't want my own children to have to grow up wearing these heavy clothes." She lifts the sticky sleeves away from her arms. No matter the weather, Daisy had to wear long sleeve dresses that came to her fingers and covered her feet. She would envy her friend's shorts and bare arms, were envy not a sin.

"I want to be a writer," she confessed. It was a dream she had told no one else, "and a mom."

"You can."

"So can you." They hugged, their feet in the cool water.

She grabs a branch for balance as she moves down the hill that leads to the creek. These Appalachian mountains were easier traveled when she was ten. A chuckle. Ten is a long way in the past.

The letter arrived two weeks ago. Daisy, dying of cancer, asked her to head to their creek, instead of going to her funeral. It is a more acceptable alternative. She wouldn't wish to see her childhood friend, laid out in a casket.

She last saw her when they were twelve. Her mom was finally divorcing her abusive dad. They were moving back north to live with her grandma for a while. They hugged each other tight. 

"Promise to write to me?" 

"Always. You promise to stay strong and not let them get to you." She says.

Daisy nods. 

She did write regularly for a while. Children, though, tend to forget. By the time she kissed her first boy at fourteen, Daisy was no longer in her mind.

Life always goes on. Married, with four children, home schooling and writing when she can, childhood promises are easily forgotten. Until she receives her letter.

A trip to Kentucky is arranged. Now she approaches the spot where she last left her friend alive.

It is smaller than she remembers. Wiping tears from her eyes, she lets the memories come. Splashing in the water. Watching the tadpoles slowly becoming frogs. The brightness of the minnows. The coolness of the moss. How their voices echoed through the tall pines. 

"I am sorry, Daisy. I am sorry I forgot about you, that I didn't keep my promise." She carefully sits in the creek's bed and removes her shoes and socks. The water is shockingly cold. Was it always so and they, in their youth, weren't affected by it?

The wind rises, blowing through the trees. They make an eerie sound. This place where her best childhood memories are, suddenly feels threatening. There is a sound in the wind, a voice. Even forty years later, she knows it.

"Daisy?" 

She appears, more a misty vapor than anything. Older but still recognizable as Daisy. From her sturdy boots to her heavy dress, it is her.

Shocked and spooked, she would run if her feet weren't bare. Instead, she stares at her to find her staring back.

"I forgive you."  forgive you echoes around them, "we were children. I didn't keep mine either." The apparition shrugs, "I married into the faith."

She finds her voice then. "I see. Was it horrible?"

Daisy 's spirit smiles, "It could've been worse. I had a beautiful daughter. She kept me sane."

"Good. If I would have kept writing to you…?"

"Would it have changed anything?" She nods, "no. It was set in motion long before. I married at fourteen. Had my Rose at fifteen. Had others but they didn't make it out of my womb."

"I am sorry."

"I'm not. What type of life would they have?"

"Rose, did she.. ?"

"She did. I refused to let my husband marry her off. She finished school and went on to college. Became a nurse and missionary. Married a man, a good Christian man, and gave me three grandbabies."

"I am glad."

"Are you a writer?"

"I am." 

The ghostly presence smiles. "Will you write my story? Rose has all the notes I took. When the cancer came, I started writing down all I could recall of my life. I want my grandbabies to be able to read it."

She swallows. It is the least she can do for leaving her here, alone.

"I would be honored." 

"I have to go now. They wait. My lost children. God kept them safe for me. In heaven I get to be with them, without any fears or pain."

"Wait! What is Rose's last name?" 

"Saunders. She lives in Georgia."

"Okay, I will find her. Daisy, I…"

"I know. I love you too." She fades away. The water under her feet goes from cold to cool. The echo through the trees sounds comforting and not creepy. The birds and frogs resume their songs. 

She sits and tries to make sense of what she has just experienced. Was it real or just her own projected guilt? 

"Rose Saunders, in Georgia."  She says aloud. If Rose is real then her encounter with her mom's ghost is. 

Nodding to herself, she pulls her feet out of the creek. Drying them on the soft moss, she places her socks and shoes back on. A nearby rock helps her stand. 

She makes her way slowly out of the woods taken in the bunches of wildflowers, the busy ants scurrying on the downed and rotten tree, the squirrel who stops to glance at her before hurrying up the tree. After all, they are part of Daisy's story. The one she will be writing even if Daisy 's ghost turns out to be from her own imagination.

She finds Rose Saunders, who looks like her mom and has a daughter, Violet, who is the spit of her at ten. She weeps while telling her the tale of the encounter at the creek. Rose cries at hearing it. 

She hands her the box of journals. "Mama wrote all the time. She wanted to get everything down. Before… You will honor her?" 

"I promise. She was my best friend." 

Daisy 's Creek was completed a year later.