June 16th, 1984

Aunt Virginia and Mother were very close as small children. Much like Harper and I were. They'd run and play together, laughing and enjoying life. Simply being children. Simply being alive. Mother used to tell me stories about the adventures she had growing up; it seemed like she'd never run out of stories. Every time she'd sit me down and tell me about some reckless thing she took part in on the mainland or some whirlwind romance of hers before Father, she'd never repeat the same story. Except for one.

She always seemed to go back to this one story of hers, from when she was quite young, and would tell it to me over and over. Even Harper who can barely sit still for anything stopped to listen to it. It was from when Mother, Aunt Virginia, and Aunt Rosalie - Clara's mother - were young girls. It was the summer before Mother's first day of school on the mainland - second grade. She had been taught the previous years from inside the Hall.

I remember this story clear as day: I can picture it all in my mind so clearly from the details Mother would spin; it's like I was really there. Mother was horribly bored one morning and went to take a walk along the edge of the thick forest near the Hall. Of course Aunt Virginia and Aunt Rosalie tagged along, on the hunt for adventure.

They didn't go out too far, for fear of being lost, and hardly entered past the treeline. At first. Then Aunt Virginia, the youngest of the three, spotted a rabbit just beyond the brush. She raced after it, Mother hot on her trail. The hot summer wind ripped through them, stinging them, and they could taste it. Aunt Rosalie trailed behind, more fearful to be caught. Soon the three found themselves in the middle of the forest, seemingly and utterly lost.

Mother took charge and decided to lead herself and her sisters out. Of course she was far too young and clueless to know where she was headed. They ended up far deeper into the wood than they had ever intended to be. Eventually they found themselves standing in a large shadow of a tree so large it towered over all the others. It's branches were thick and strong, reaching out for miles. The leaves were so cluttered Mother couldn't even see the sky, just a glimpse of a cloud here and there.

At the base of this tree was a large, hollow opening. Like a make-shift door had been ripped into place. Mother was hesitant at first, but ultimately she wanted to explore it. She wanted an adventure as wild as the summer promised. Aunt Rosalie begged her not to go through, that they'd all end up caught in some horrific death, but Aunt Virginia just followed, sticking close to Mother at every turn. Of course Aunt Rosalie followed, too, just with more bitter sarcasm than any five year old could summon.

The hollow opening was vast and dank. Despite the Southern heat, Mother swore she got chills. But after pushing her way through the opening, Mother found the other end, another opening. It lead to a small field where the treetops made room for the sun to shine down, making the small creek sparkle. Mother's mouth gaped because, as she put it, there were thousands of tiny ghosts dancing in the field.

Upon her later discovery, they were in fact daisies getting blown around by the wind, only appearing as if they were magical. But Mother said that ghosts or flowers nonetheless, they were magical. That so was that whole day.

Ever since then, Mother's favorite flowers have always been daisies. I hold a soft bouquet of them now, cradling them until I'm brave enough to lay them on her coffin.

I'm crying silent tears - on the inside, of course. To my family I must appear strong and steady, prepared for anything. I can't let them see me cry again. I can't let them worry for me when Harper needs them all so much more.

I don't think I'll ever be brave again. A part of me died with my parents in that plane crash, and I don't think I'll ever be able to recover it. I can't be brave. I never would've been the one to race through the opening at the tree's base, or to dance with the ghosts in the field. I would be the one here, back at the familiar, crying.

Despite the pain I feel in every step I take, I walk to Mother's and Father's coffins. They're placed next to each other. I lay down the bouquet, saving one flower for Harper. I linger a moment, letting my fingers rest against the hard wooden caskets. I miss them both more than I can bear.

Harper hasn't moved since the funeral started. Hasn't spoken a word, hasn't shifted in her seat. She's just sat still and let her tears roll down her cheeks and fall onto her black skirt. I go and sit next to her, handing her the last daisy.

"You know how Mother loved daisies, yeah, doll?" I remind her.

Her gaze doesn't switch, but she nods shortly. She tilts her head to rest on my shoulder; she brings up the flower to breathe it in.

"Mother smelled like daisies. Now she smells like death," Harper murmurs to herself, just audible enough so I can hear it. That statement makes me uneasy.

One by one, our family members leave some sort of flower or other sign of last goodbyes on the coffins. Then they all retreat back to where they were sitting. To so many of them, the more distant ones especially, this is just another day. Another part of their life. Oh, Marianna and Roger's funeral is today. Right.

My stomach tightens. I'm not brave anymore.