The Daisy

Like a flower, I grew right before your eyes. You watched as I began to develop my petals and stabilize myself in the ground beneath me. We found our way together, through every storm, through every drought. But humans, just like flowers, don’t stand tall and regal forever. There comes to a point where the amber beauty of a flower’s petals wears thin, much like you.  The skin you wear now is muted, and your structure is something near a skeleton, skinny to the bone. The person you once were is attenuated, as you barely have motion like you once did. The walls surrounding you are albescent and harsh to the eyes—what an awful place to die. Strapped to a bed, draped with thin blankets, you remind me much of a prisoner. Not to your bed, but seemingly, your own body.  A prisoner to the disease that is destroying you from the inside, you have no escape. 

I watch as the doctors walk in, giving the same dose of medications, the same dose that never seems to work. Blue pills, yellow pills, orange. One singular red every other day, and a green one three times a day. You tell me that you pretend you are eating the fruit that coincides with the color of that specific pill. So instead of taking multiple drugs a day, you are eating a variety of the richest fruits in the world. Apples, pears, bananas, blueberries, kiwis — that sounds a lot better than Cyclophosphamide or Arsenic trioxide. I catch you gazing at the almost translucent but lightly tinted IV fluid as it drips into your body. I wonder what you may be thinking. Do you feel like this is worth it?

Your flowers are replaced almost daily, as people flood in with support. You can tell which flowers have just been brought in, as they look contemporary and stand upright. The dying, older flowers-it is apparent to see they have lived their life cycle. I pick out a wilting daisy from one of your many bouquets and hold its limp stem in my hands. It reminds me a lot of you. Once so vivacious, but still in their final hours, when all forces in the world have told them their time is up, tragically beautiful. This daisy has lived through its life cycle, but I can’t help but feel like you have not. It is unfair that some get to live the entirety of their lives while others have theirs cut short for seemingly no reason. I look down to see the daisy crushed between my fingertips. I must be going mad when it has come to the point where I’m getting enraged at a daisy. 

And just like that daisy, I crushed between my fingers, you took your final bow on the stage we call life, and I had to watch as the world crushed you. I knew you were at peace and no longer living in agony. You were no longer bound to your bed and instead, free to go further than any being could comprehend. But with every passing daisy, not one will ever compare to you.