Page 37 of Our Long Days
From a young age, my brain struggled to retain information.My dad noticed this and suggested I write things as a way of remembering. It became a form of therapy, using fancy, colorful pens to write goals, chores, or important dates.
It was our thing until it wasn’t. Now, it’s just mine.
The list in my hand is one I wrote the summer before he passed, one he helped me curate.
I stomp down the porch steps, flustered and fed up.
“Florence,” a deep voice calls. I ignore it and march toward the tire swing.
The branch of the oak tree groans as I dump myself on the old rubber ring and stare angrily at the blades of grass, rocking back and forth.
Dad’s footsteps draw closer. “Florence Abigail, you owe your mother an apology.”
The world spins below me. “She started it.”
“Florence,” my dad warns, and I glance up, pouting.“When you live in your own house, you can do whatever you want, but today, you live with us.”
A soft growl escapes my lips, and I vault off the swing, arms flying. “I can’t even explain it, Dad, but the feel of the water mixed with bits of food...” I shiver remembering the slice of cooked onion wrapped around my fingers, all slimy and gross. “It makes me want to crawl out of my skin.”
Dad frowns. He’s here to lecture me, sent by my mom, but there isn’t an ounce of anger on his face. “We can get you some Marigolds. Pink ones.”
My nose wrinkles. “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to move out.”
There’s a hint of sadness in his laughter. He settles against the trunk of the tree and slides to sit. I join him, sighing dramatically.
“Don’t grow up too quickly, Buttercup. Enjoy being young—even if it involves dishes and nagging parents.”
“What’s there to enjoy at fifteen? Homework, chores, and acurfew? When I’m your age, I’ll have my own house, make my own rules, and travel the world.”
“Oh, Florence.” He loops an arm around my shoulders, tugging me close. I pretend to hate it, before resting my head on his shoulder. “There’s so much to do and enjoy, even in this little corner of the world. Life will pass by before you know it. Don’t think about what you want to achieve when you’re old and gray like me. What do you want to achieve before you’re…twenty-five?”
His question leaves me stumped.
“Think big and small,” he encourages.
“Well…I’d like to start learning how to drive.” He’s wanted to teach me since I turned fifteen, but I’ve given excuse after excuse. The idea of getting behind a wheel is nerve-wracking. “The usual stuff. Camping with friends. Get a boyfriend.” He shivers. “I don’t know. This is stupid.”
“Nothing you set your heart on is stupid.” He nods toward the house. “Let’s make a list. Run and get your notebook.”
I grin at his suggestion. Dad knows I’m a sucker for a list.
I’m on my feet in a flash. Three minutes later, I return, breathless and armed with my notebook and a handful of pens. We sit under the shade of the oak. It’s nice. Mom comes out, the dishes forgotten, and hands us both a glass of lemonade. Dad steals a kiss, making her blush and me a little nauseous—and inspired.
He takes a nap while I scrawl in my notebook. Some things are silly, some typical of a teenage girl. Some are simply to prove to my stupid brothers I can do anything. Jotting each one down is exciting. When it’s complete, I nudge my dad awake.
He reads it over, grumbling his protests at two items and smiling at most. “What should we call it?”
I shrug.
His lips twist before stealing a pen and writing along the top. I giggle at the name.
The sun starts to set, and I begin collecting my things before pausing. “Hey, Daddy?”
“Yeah, Buttercup?”
“Please don’t be disappointed if I don’t complete the list before I turn twenty-five. Sometimes, I forget things or get mixed up.” My eyes fall. “I don’t do it on purpose. I swear.”
Dad sighs and clasps me by the chin. The same green eyes as mine glimmer when he raises my gaze. “Nothing you could ever do would disappoint me, Florence. All I ask is you try, and if it doesn’t work out, that’s okay. Your happiness is key. Whatever you do in life, I’ll be proud of you. Don’t forget that.”
