The Daisy

The daisy is my favorite flower. Several years ago was my last visit to my hometown. I bought a bunch of daisies at the local flower shop from a man who happened to go to high school with my father. He didn't know that my dad had died. After I told him what the flowers were for, he told me a story about going with my dad to see the Marine recruiter, and how the recruiter wouldn't talk to my dad until he had hung by his fingers from the doorjamb for three minutes. Then, flummoxed, he gave me extra daisies at no charge.

I finally found the flat bronze headstone in the Veterans section of the cemetery; it was the first time I had taken my children there. It started to rain. My husband saw there was no vase for the flowers and, silently, used the pointed end of the black umbrella to poke a hole in the sacred earth. He took the younger ones away; oldest, then still tiny herself, insisted on staying. She cried because I was crying. Her little hand was a comfort to me. The rain mixed with my tears as I introduced my father to his grandchildren. The daisies were bright against the grass. I was happy that I could leave them there.

Only very recently did I read that the word "daisy" comes from the Old English doeges eage - "day's eye." What a beautiful metaphor for a flower that resembles the sun, and like the sun unfolds from the earth in rebirth every morning. That day years ago, I think I felt this meaning in my heart. You see, my father's special song to me as a child was "You Are My Sunshine" - we would sing it back and forth to each other as a game. Skies must have gotten too gray for him when I was nine years old and he took his life. That day in the rain, I gave him a bouquet of sunshine amid tears of love. I hope it was enough.