Daisies

Dawn had always been fascinated by the bees.

Sweltering in the cotton taffeta of her dress, she often watched them from the still of the living room window as they swarmed in gathered clusters around her mother’s daisies, the blaze of the Southern sun brightening the pale of her skin to an angry red hue. She stood, gazing, for the majority of the early day as her family navigated through their basic daily activities, her small diamond eyes wide and receptive to the world bustling outside the sheeted glass.

It was a Thursday her grandmother pulled the Torino GT into the driveway, her hand lazily draped out the window, clinking at the steel with pastel nails. Despite the age gap, her grandmother always seemed to mirror a near perfect representation of Dawn’s own mother, outfitted in clothes seemingly plucked straight from the contents of her daughter’s closet. Dawn’s grandfather lay buried deep in the ground, and had been since two years before her birth.

Dawn wandered away from the window, a bewildered sense of excitement washing over her as she stared at the car pummel down their gravel driveway. She loved her grandmother, her grandmother brought presents and sweets and occasionally her small little dog, an enthusiastic rat terrier whose main purpose in life was to cover any near human in tiny licks of affection. She trumped in an eager fashion to the door and began stomping her feet at arrival of her destination, tiny shoes smacking against the wood. It was her chosen way to get ahold of her mother’s attention, to stomp.

“Yes, Dawn,” Her mother emerged from their dining room, a short, curved woman with thick glasses, and ran a hand through Dawn’s blonde locks, stopping to adjust a lace bow sat perfect in the middle of her...

... middle of paper ...

...now dear, I passed your grandfather’s off as a heart attack. You got too messy,” Her grandmother flicks her cigarette. “Shove him back under, we’ll figure it out inside. It’s hot as the damn devil’s ass out here, and my damn makeup is melting off. And stop crying.”

The two reach down, finalizing the task with a final jam under the porch, sliding him in.

“Oh,” Her grandmother sighs as they stand. “Don’t be so disappointed, my little black widow. He was a miserable drunk at best.” She patted her daughter on the shoulder. Her mother wiped her eyes, smearing more makeup across her cheek, looking frail, her brown eyes defeated as she gazes up the dejected state of her late husband.

“Let’s go play with Dawn.” Her grandmother prodded her in the side with a sharp, skinny elbow. “I bought her some dresses. A nice little yellow one, white trim. Maybe I’ll do her makeup.”