The Wistful Daisies

A dear friend committed suicide in March 2015. Here is a true account of my memory of our hiking together.

I wistfully walk parallel to the train tracks, balancing on the rocky slope, becoming oblivious to the fact that I traipse alone. He appears walking right by me so briskly, and with his placid smile, he makes the air as gracious, despite being somewhat upset like myself. We were both melancholies who gained happiness by helping others who were as wistful, so we became as content with the mere presence of one another. As the wind blew, the scent of wild flowers was dispersed around me. He began to ecstatically store large iron nails in his pockets that had, for whatever the reason, been left in the ditch. He insisted that these could be sold for about five dollars a piece and had me carry a few.

I'm a tad paranoid that my mother will wonder where I am and I wish to go home, but I say nothing to him. Eventually we make our way back through the woods, expanding onto his trails. He pulls out a large knife of sorts and slashes through the thick and thorny forest vines ahead of me, abaft me only to hold back the thorny vines for my entrance. When we got to the highly condensed forest parts and we were left to climbing over a fallen tree which would be difficult for me to climb over, he would without me asking draw me to his chest and carry me to the other side. As he did this, I could smell his perspiration, the sweet odor of his body; It is strangely enticing and I wish to bathe in it.

He carries me as if I am a gilded feather, and frees me back to the rocks, where I remember but refuse to acknowledge that he took away his rhythmic pulse, and that I am stranded where we once meandered. I grasp the edges of my frame and weep, as if I were now a feather gilded in tar.