Image: Unsplash, downloaded (https://unsplash.com/photos/a-pink-flower-in-front-of-a-house-urIbI0kYW9Q) 8. 11. 2024.
The Trumpets of War
Dad’s ripping out the daffodils again – wielding a scythe like some backwoods grim reaper in a sunhat and goloshes.
I don’t know why he bothers. They’ll be back next year.
“The bloody things are everywhere!” he grumbled one day, glaring through the kitchen window. He leapt out the backdoor, a piece of toast dangling from his mouth, ripping bulbs from the soil like a dog with a bone. I watched him out the window, gripping the ledge on tiptoes.
Next spring, they bloomed larger than ever. He threw his toast in the bin, marching out to war.
“They’re just flowers!” I tried to reason with him, but all he could hear were golden trumpets sounding a battle cry.
The following year, they sprouted again. He threw his crusts to the crows, hoping they’d peck at the stems and shred the petals to confetti. After the swarm, the daffodils remained rooted, scarred, but still standing. The crows don’t come here anymore, not since he emptied the bird feeder because ‘They can’t do their bloody job!’
Another yellow springtime, willing to try anything, he enlisted a baffled priest to perform an exorcism over the patch. It didn’t work. Now the kids at school ask, “Isn’t your dad the one that crashed a communion ranting about flowers?” Even Mum turned to the church in her hour of need, guzzling glass after glass of the blood of Christ.
Now April showers have soaked the soil, hungry bulbs guzzling and gorging until they pierce the dirt ceiling, exploding buttery and bold. I don’t have to stretch to reach the window anymore, but the scene is still the same.
“What did those flowers ever do to him?” I ask Mum. She stands beside me, spectators on the sidelines of a war we have no part in.
Mum sighs, nodding over my shoulder, “They remind him that something’s missing.”
She’s looking at the living room. Dad doesn’t go in there anymore. Grandma’s urn stands dusty on the mantle, beside a framed picture of her, a smudge of mud across her nose, a beam of pride, holding a bouquet of trumpets.
About the Author: Billie-Leigh Burns is a writer from Liverpool. Her work has been featured by 50 Words Stories, 101 Words, Funny Pearls, and The Mersey Review. She is also a bookkeeper, making her the only writer she knows who owns an 'I Heart Spreadsheets' mug.
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