Daffodils in Spring

Grant heard the birds first, they sang as the first hints of sunlight peeked through his bedroom curtains. A loud defiant song, that screams I am still here, the night has not taken me, and I will see the sunrise today. An old song, sung for millions of years. He had heard the song thousands of times, but had he ever really truly listened? He supposed not. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and slipped his feet into his woollen slippers, Margaret had picked them out for him the last time they had gone grocery shopping together. A soft blue glow was emerging from behind the curtains, a familiar sight these past few months, sleep had been an unattainable dream for him. After Margaret’s passing, insomnia had gripped him tightly and thrust him into a waking nightmare.

He grabbed his dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door, his fingers lightly brushed over Margaret’s as he reached for his. Out of force of habit, he instinctively opened the door slowly, before realising there was no one to be quiet for. He slowly descended down the stairs, still avoiding the creak in the third step from the bottom. He walked through the lounge, the smell of potpourri was fading. He wondered what scent and brand he needed to replace it with. Lately, so many small things he’d never considered before occupied most of his thoughts, how much was too much for coffee? How often does the house need to be dusted? How long do you roast a chicken? These things had never really occurred to him before, they had always just been taken care of by Margaret. He felt like a depressed bachelor struggling to do his own laundry.

The rest of the lounge had become distressing to look at, most items in there had been curated by his late wife. Small knickknacks, porcelain teddy bears and wooden angels, a collection of novels in a small wooden bookcase next to her armchair. Photos of their children and grandchildren lined the mantlepiece, even more, were hung on the wall above it. The most painful to look at, was their wedding photo, a beautiful day and a beautiful bride, sometimes he found himself longing for those early days again, but he would never trade the memories they had made or the life they had built together.

He trudged into the kitchen, his bum knee was always trouble first thing. He put the kettle on, ignoring the small pile of paperwork he needed to get to. ‘Things for another day’ he thought opening the blinds. The morning’s golden glow seeped above the horizon, setting a soothing orange cast on everything it touched. He opened the door to the garden while he waited for the kettle, the fresh spring air filled his nostrils, waking up his lungs. Maybe he’d have his coffee outside today, it had been a while since he had just enjoyed nature. The kettle clicked off and he pottered about pouring himself a cup of coffee, before sitting on his wooden armchair in the garden to watch the sun rise.

“The daffodils are coming along beautifully this year, Margaret” the bright yellow buds had started to bloom. After a long winter, the warm mornings of spring had encouraged growth.

“You always loved to see the daffodils blooming, and the cherry tree, look.” He pointed over at the tree in the bottom of the garden, soft pink petals had started to form along the branches, in a few weeks the unused little Wendy house that sat beneath it would be showered in soft pink snow. “Lovely, just lovely.” He blinked back tears and drank his coffee.

The past winter had been difficult, the long dark nights had been almost painful, but the sun had always risen in the morning. The loneliness had been the worst of it, trying to sleep in an empty bed without the calming sound of gentle breathing next to him. Or rolling over in the middle of the night with an outstretched arm, only to find emptiness where he had once found comfort. The winter nights had been the worst, but the days had not fared much better. He had spent most of them sat in his armchair in the lounge, staring passively out of the window or across the room to the other armchair. Now empty and abandoned, it sat gathering dust with a bag of unfinished knitting lying next to it. Although he tried, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander back to the empty armchair, a force of habit he supposed. Can’t be helped. He would distract himself, read the newspaper, but sooner or later he’d find a story he wanted to share, but no one to share with. Though he found his poor-mans repose short-lived when the sun set again in the evening, and the sleepless night started all over again.

His son, Ethan, had called several times a week just to check up on him, but the conversations had always felt the same, nothing had changed, and eventually, he just stopped answering them, which lead to several impromptu visits from his understandably stressed son. Which only made him feel worse, he knew it hurt his son to see his Dad in pain, especially when he was still grieving himself. Ethan had told him that his grandkids asked about him a lot, but he couldn’t face them, they were so young. They didn’t really understand that Grandma was gone, he couldn’t bear their innocent questions.

His cup was almost empty now. He set it down on the garden table and breathed deeply, the air was sweet and fresh. It was true that the garden felt empty without her this year, but he was only without her physical presence. He could find her in the crocuses and the daffodils they had planted in years past, in the buzz of the bees she had so loved and the sweet birdsong she loved to hear. He tried to focus on that, it dulled the pain a little.

“Another lovely spring Margaret.”

He got up and took his empty coffee cup inside and set it down on the countertop. The winter had been long and difficult, that was true, but spring had arrived and maybe it was time to take the next step. He knew that it was easier said than done, but he also knew Margaret would have chastised him for wallowing in self-pity. He glanced back at the stack of papers he had been ignoring, general last state of affairs that needed to be taken care of after Margaret’s passing. The idea of finishing them made her death seem so real and finite, like writing in stone. He glanced at the countertops collecting dust and the pile of mounting dishes. He sighed and pulled out his mobile phone his son had bought him a few years back to help in stay in contact, it was time to move forward, but that didn’t mean he needed to do it alone.

“Hi, Ethan.”

“Hi, Dad, how’s things?”

He looked around the room,

“They’ve been better son, definitely been better.”

“Do you want me to come over? I’m not doing anything today, Linda’s taking the kids over to see her parents.” Ethan paused, “It’d be nice to see you…” He added.

“I think, I think that’d be nice, yeah.”

“See you in five?”

“See you in five.”

Ethan hung up the phone and Grant returned it to his pocket. Even the longest of journeys begin with a single step, he couldn’t remember where he had heard that but it felt incredibly relevant now. He wasn’t trying to recover from his grief, that was impossible, like asking an apple tree to grow lemons. The hole that Margaret had left him would never be filled, but he could learn to live with it. There’s no better time for new beginnings than the first day of spring.