Wildflower

All I have ever known is the island. I have only ever spoken to my parents. I only know what they have told me. I think those thoughts often as I pace the shore in my rare free time, as I am now.

“Clemmie!” I hear my ma shout from the cabin. That means dinner, a much needed dinner. Fishing has been slow so far this summer which naturally means that pa gets his pick of the substantial food while ma and I get the scraps, which had lately been measly vegetables. Tongiht is different though, tongiht is my birthday.

Walking up to the little log cabin, I notice pa sitting on the front stoop with a sour look on his face. When he gets in his moods it tends to be a very good idea to ignore him and breathe quietly. I slide past him and come into the main room of the little house. The smell of freshly cooked meat is enough to make me melt. 

“Where did you get this?” I ask ma as I peeked into the stew pot filled with a meaty broth. 

“Your father caught a squirrel in the trap, convinced him to share it” she says quietly. She is a quiet woman, and though she does not say it aloud also a very depressed one. Ma picked up her frail hand to gesture to the pile of wildflowers on the counter. “Can you put these in a vase, please?” Ma never lets the counter sit without a fresh bouquet in the middle. I nod to her and grab both the flowers and a pair of old sheers from the shelf above the counter and take it all out back. Sitting in the door opening, I clip the leaves off the stems and trim them neatly. 

For 18 long years I have followed a strict routine, day after day after day. Wake up early to get a start on my chores, then move onto the garden, try to catch something for dinner, fail and then relent to wander around to island, and finally make sure to stay out of pa’s way. As long as both ma and I followed the last step all could be peaceful.

“Clemintine! Get in the goddamn house!” Pa’s booming voice jolts me out of my thoughts and sends a stinging fear into my stomach. I push myself up and run back through the doorway with the freshly trimmed bouquet in one hand and the sheers in the other. “About time” pa huffs as I come in. I walk over near ma and hand her the sheers and bouquet. 

“Be careful Clem” she says in a voice so low you could mistake it for the breeze.