She tended all of the plants, of course - luscious red roses, star-petaled lilies, layered blue-white columbine, puffy snapdragons in flavors of crimson and peach, clementine and gold. My favorite were the carnivorous Sundews - sparkling with red and green and gold nectar, so beautiful and so deadly. But, to her, nothing compared to daisies.
I never saw anything particularly remarkable about them - but when she spoke, voice like wind chimes on a blustery day, I could almost believe. She would tell me stories - wild fantasies - about the flowers, and the little creatures that inhabited them, and where they would go when they blew away during a rainstorm. They were such basic flowers - long white petals, a pollen-yellow center - but in her mind, they contained layers of hidden depth. Sometimes, I thought they were a lot like her - unassuming, pretty, fragile. It was as though they were connected by some invisible thread - how they clung the the earth the same way she clung to my arm, for life and support, or how she wept when half of them were torn apart by a squirrel. For those stolen hours, closeted away behind the garden walls, I could almost feel soft and sensitive, like the magic my mother knew was in those quivering little plants.
It’s been years now. I have a life beyond faeries and flowers, and the old house where my mother used to live houses a very nice young couple and their cat. I have my own family. But sometimes, once in a blue moon, I stop by to see the old place, breathe in the memories. And the current occupants always very kindly lead me into the back garden, which they have little time and less patience for, and have allowed to grow wild. Some of the plants are gone, though I try to weed out the Sundews. But I always stop when I get to those small, shaky flowers, white with a center of yellow, like a shard of the sun. Because, though every plant contains piece of my soul, it’s the daisies that truly help me remember my mother, and what she taught me to believe. And sometimes, in the stillness, as I touch my finger to those tremulous petals - I can almost feel her, still there, watching over the blossoms she treasured so dearly.