Mellow Daisy

You’re born.

It happens.

In a sudden rush of red and aural bombardment you are extracted through the birth canal via a complex system of levers and pulleys in to a hard, undignified world where you are simultaneously loved and hated immediately by your parents. You will likely grow to hate them as well over time, tempered with the dutiful love that you must provide based solely on the fact that you were made in a marriage bed and carried for nine months by a woman who is a saint, your father says, so respect her, and respect me by proxy.

You live.

Life happens.

You are one, then two, then five, six, twenty-three. You went to grade school, you erupted with artistic vision in high school and you dropped out of college to pursue a less academic career choice waiting tables while distancing yourself from your former friends and loved ones to pursue an acting career that only ended badly and you have three straight to DVD pornography films under your belt. They are your shame, you will carry them to your grave. They will not make a good antidote at a Christmas party, they will not be something you tell your grand children about. They will simply cease to exist.

Perhaps you will marry.

This might be a decision that came about while eating Chinese take-out the day after you sleep with your childhood sweetheart after getting drunk at a Rolling Stone’s Cover Band concert at a local bar. The person you marry will not be your childhood sweetheart. He will be the rebound. He may or may not be a drunk. This could be classified as regret, or an unwise decision you made in haste while trying to distract the man you knew loved you, claiming you were not good enough for him, it will never happen, it was a momentary lapse of reason and you’re very sorry, but please don’t call again.

You may have a steady job pushing paper for a high end corporation with a generous pay check and excellent health care benefits, as well as a fantastic bonus and vacation time during the holiday season. You may work at McDonald’s and have scars on your arms from the deep fryer. You may train horses in the Netherlands for show jumping in Canada. Any of these choices are viable and the world will be yours to hold in the palm of your hand, at least until you are thirty or thirty five. You’ve heard tell that is when everything goes downhill.

You procreate.

Children happen.

It’s not uncommon that you would wish to breed. Anything that came from you would have perfect teeth, a flawless complexion, a size two naturally. You’ll be disappointed when they have acne and fail Grade Eight mathematics and need to be held back a year. Clearly they are not your child, you forget you also failed Grade Eight mathematics and spend a week lecturing them on their summer vacation about the fundamentals of paying attention in class and how you expect them to grow up and make a name for themselves just like you had to do. You are not surprised that they claim to hate you and less shocked that they slam the door so hard to their bedroom that it cracks along the hinges. You might take the time to be sad and wish you were twenty-two again, waiting tables. What has  your life become?

You die.

This also happens.

You’re expelled from the Earth in a flurry of cancer, car accidents, heart attacks and sudden infant death syndrome, to a realm we as a human collective know nothing about. In the last .5 seconds you have left in this world, you recall your entire life in a series of black and white photographs. You remember something your mother always said to you before you left for school in the morning. Every day, after breakfast, she would brush your hair, plait it, spin you in a circle and say, “Life is too short, daisy. Be mellow.”
You will exit this world gracefully, with the self righteous dignity you lacked at your birth, before you knew any better.

You question.

It happens.

Perhaps the afterlife is simply a field of daisies.