Poppies by Tilly Kearey
When I woke up, there were streams of brassy light pouring in from the top of the window. Dust motes were struggling against the flow like salmon, rising higher and higher and then tumbling relentlessly down again. My breathing barely stirred them as they drifted past my nose. I watched them settle on my bare arms and face as I held my breath – then let it go in a great whooshing bursting release, making the particles dart and dance around the bed in a flurry of brightness. I tried to inhale again, but the air caught in my throat, and once I started coughing, I couldn’t stop.
When I woke up, someone had left a flower on the table to my left. It was a bright, translucent white, and the petals were ragged and creased; but it had a freshness to it, an idea of bravery and innocence, that I liked. It looked peculiarly out of place, lying there so calmly, among all my tinctures and syrups and powders; trapped in a bristling crowd of bottles and phials. It reminded me of sunshine echoing
orange and purple behind my eyelids, of sitting in the grass with a faint beetle-tickle crawling up my ankle,
of fine summer dresses hitched up inelegantly past the knees for paddling in the river or
searching for water snails.
I hadn’t realised that it was
summer outside –
the dull clean light in this room
barely changed with the seasons, and the days
went past unknowingly and uncaringly.
When I woke up, my head was
turned uncomfortably far to the
left,
so that the
first thing I saw
was the flower standing upright,
seemingly unaided. The next
thing I took in
was that my
heart was fluttering high up
in my
chest,
like a broken
bird in a cage
of bone.
Every flutter caused
an
answering
thump
in my
head,
and every
thump
reduced the
haze in front
of my eyes, so
eventually
I
realised that
the poppy’s stem
was swathed in
a veil of glass.
It was leaning
forwards a little
within
the vase,
so that
it appeared
to be bowing, or swooning.
Someone
had set another poppy,
larger than the first and
yellow
at the base of
the head, beside
it on the table.
I didn’t understand
why the flowers,
fresh as
they were, brought such a
stale, rancid odour to the room.
It hadn’t smelt like
this last time I was awake.
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