Excerpts from “White Heather”

This piece contains emotionally sensitive content including reference to child abuse.

That house. That damn house. I stood in front of the house, my cotton nightgown blowing in the crisp morning wind. I gripped the stems of white heather in white-knuckled hands. White heather symbolized safety, and making peace with the past. I had learned that in my botany class. So, my flower choice seemed appropriate. I had come to the house around four in the morning, when the sky was a dark indigo with violet emerging from the horizon. The house stood alone, in the woods, perfect for a man like my father. Perfect for secrets.

I shakily stepped towards the front door. I opened it gently, as if I was scared as to what I would see inside. And I should’ve been. Beer bottles were strewn across the floor, mixed with shards of glass and settled dust. It was exactly as it had been nine years ago. My breath hitched at the familiar smell of vodka and cologne. The floorboards creaked under my feet, and a mouse squeaked in the corner. I looked ahead to the kitchen, and took three delicate steps to the bathroom. I knew this house like the back of my hand. I took a deep, yet trembling breath. Everything was the same.

I let a choked sob escape my throat as I collapsed onto the stained cedar floor. My back slid down the bedroom wall as I wrapped myself in my leather jacket, and gripped my raven black hair in my hands, my head in my lap. My knees stung from bracing my fall, but I was used to pain. I felt the memory approaching me, powerful and mighty, like a tsunami. And for the first time in nine years, I needed to let myself drown.

The first tears were dry, whimpers flooding out of my lips. Then they raged like a monsoon, flowing hard and violent. So I sat there, and let myself cry. I couldn’t even remember the last time I cried. I pushed myself up on the probably unstable door frame, knowing this house probably wasn't in the best shape it had ever been in. I ran a fingertip over my frayed quilt. The quilt was made by Marie, my grandmother’s friend. It had foxes and flowers and butterflies on it. But my favorite part of the quilt was the owls. I could hear owls outside my window as I fell asleep, and seeing them on a blanket made me feel as if I wasn’t so alone in this house. I shakily walked out to the marsh that the house bordered, passing the dilapidated garden. I loved the beach. I used to play with the neighbors in the water, learning how to kayak. Richard and Susan were a couple in their seventies who lived next door. They let me play with them, and they gave me fancy cheeses and fruits. I remember kayaking in a cherry red boat, and picnicking on a sandbar. They loved me like a daughter.

As I walked out to the marsh, I smiled. A real smile. The marsh was breathtaking at this time of morning. The sun was a flaming orange in the sky, decorated with rosy clouds and lavender stripes across a watercolor sky. I remember looking out of my window just to watch the sky come to life like an ombre masterpiece. Outside my window, I had a view of the sandy seashore and the chartreuse marsh grass that bordered the beach. I stepped onto the sand, fiddler crabs scuttling around my heels. The water lapped at my feet. I shivered. The air may have warmed up, but the March ocean was still icy. The bottom of my nightgown was getting wet, but I didn’t care. I picked up a periwinkle, one of my favorite creatures, and set it down on a rock that was slightly submerged. The sun was rising, warm and fierce. The smooth water lit up with the shining reflection of the sky. I put my hands in my pockets and remembered why I came. I pulled the white heather sprigs out of my pocket, holding the plants in my callused hands. I set the flowers down on the sand, probably to be carried away by waves laced with porcelain foam. But that’s alright. I’m alright now. As I walked back to my car, I saw that a plant had grown near the marsh. White heather.

~ Lyric Buckley