The Daisies
Author: Evelyn
I took a photo of Ce and her daddy the night before she died. I handed her to daddy as I started cooking dinner. She slumped into a ball in front of his chest as he sat at the kitchen counter—computer in front of him, with a vase of daises in the background. Big girls were in the next room doing homework and giggling about something random. Ce was content, and so was everyone else.
Ce had some feeding issues initially, and for weeks I was constantly worried about our scrawny baby. But now that she was more than 2-months-old, she finally chunked up. Her soft rolls could be seen under her thin onesie, tempting me to give her thigh a little pinch. Looking across the counter, I felt so relieved. “Two months,” I thought, looking at her, “she is now two months old. Our baby is less vulnerable now.”
“We should take some photos of her with my big camera again.” Yih-Chun said in passing, “She is starting to smile and lift her head.”
“Uh huh” I said, snapping a phone photo for the grandparents in between my chopping, half listening, “Maybe next weekend. Too busy right now. We can probably use the daisies next to you as a prop.” With that, the conversation ended, and we had dinner.
It has now been two weeks since Ce’s been gone. As I sift through the photos for her memorial, I realized that the daisies in the photo is still blooming next to me. I cannot fathom. Our time is no longer linear. It feels like years ago, and yet it’s only been 2 weeks. So much, so much has happened over the past 2 weeks.
I went into her room yesterday. It was cold and quiet. The nursery was always the warmest room in the house, and it was filled either with her snoring or a buzz of activity. Strange how everything looks just as it was, yet nothing feels right. The room reminded me of her, pale and motionless, on my lap. She looked like my baby, but she was clearly no longer Ce.
When I saw the van again at the tow-yard, the violence of the crash hit me again. The mangled metal, crushed seats. Our van contained so many memories from the past 7 years, and now it sat, abandoned, mauled, in a junkyard. Someone will eventually come and pick apart this carcass, devour all its value, and then crumple it into scraps. I felt violated, knowing that something we treasured will soon be thrown away like garbage. I winced and turned away.
The mutilated van also reminded me too much of my baby’s bruised little arms and pin pricked legs from when they tried to revive her. I don’t want to remember her like that. Her skin and hair were always so tender, like a furry little animal. I liked rubbing my face in her hair, smelling my silly baby. She might sometimes smell like poopy diapers, but I’ve always trimmed her nails short to make sure she had not a scratch on her face.
And yet, though the daisies are still on top of our mantle, she is no longer here. I wish we took those photos, so I can remember just a bit more of her. Nothing will ever be enough, but I just wish we had a little more.
Baby Ce and the miffy that Uncle Johnny brought her.