The daffodils trembled behind me while my lily white hands were grubby from digging myself into a hole. Where did the daylight go? The sun, jaundiced in my memory, no longer lit the horizon. The disease of lost youth ate my heart. This existence is fallow, and the future seems barren. I’m not sure what my fate will be.


The weight of loss fell down heavy on my shoulders. The hole grew bigger. Loss of life, with no one to call a friend and nothing left to inspire among the concrete and the benefits queue that lined the streets and the fat blackeyed drunk leaning on the pub’s doorwat. Digging, trying to find some sense of vitality. All that digging left me exhausted.

As I dug, I forgot to think. I simply kept digging, and then I fell.

The sky rose above me, breaking apart with gold highlights. With irises bulging, I saw above me the tree branching out into decoration, and home to several birds who sang in the morning, a chorus of life. The leaves moved as fresh air was breathed and the daffodils danced on the spot, rooted with loving care. Lying in the soft, warm earth womb I had made, I came into the world anew today.




About catherinehume

Catherine Hume: Writer, social care worker and a liver of a life less ordinary.
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