#69 Tulips

by Mark Noyce

I was walking through the fields when it happened. Something snapped. Something inside me. It took me a moment to realise what it was. I could smell tulips.

Tulips were her favourite flowers, and I hadn't realised how long it had been since I had smelled them, or how long it had been since I really thought about her. She was so young, far too young. I remembered the way she smiled, her blonde curls flowing in the wind while she ran and laughed.

We were at the park, and she was running around. She ran too far though, and wasn't looking. She ran out of the park, and in to the road. I couldn't reach her in time, and she went through the windscreen. When I finally got to her all I could do was hold her and cry. I had already lost her mother, and I couldn't believe I was losing her too.

The driver was apologising but I couldn't hear him. I couldn't hear anything. I didn't want to be there. An ambulance came but it was too late. She was already gone. I would never hold her again. Never see her ever again.

When we buried her we covered her coffin in tulips, and I never went near them again. I found myself walking without thinking, and I guess I just couldn't escape the past and came here subconsciously.

This was that park. All I could do was drop to my knees, and cry once more.

1 comment:

Sam Knight said...

A poignant look at how memories can overwhelm us and be triggered by small things.