The last daisies of this spring have also faded.
It symbolizes the end of spring and the transience of delicate beauties for me. Ultimately, transience is a vital constant of life. While many things change, it is only logical to think that the substitute will also be temporary. What daisies show me is that in order to smile a little more while your life goes on, it is essential to catch these changes before their time passes.
Otherwise, how much of our life would be under our control? If I am just standing there, not trying to blend my life with the thing that I want, can that “thing” be a part of my life. If I do not try to reach it, we will only be existing within the same moment as time passes, but we will not be breaking the wall between us.
Since humankind has always been in a constant race with “time,” there is a possibility that we will not have the chance to break these walls once again. That’s why we should try to break these walls. The flowers may bloom in the next spring, but time may run out. Or even if it doesn’t, when the die is cast, it may not show the same number.
I once met someone who said that the wind could bring back what was said before, so he listened to the wind when he was alone. He said that the wind would bring him sounds from very distant lands. He would listen and hope that the wind would bring him what he wasn’t able to hear once again.
This is his story.
“Daisies have bloomed!” I called excitedly in the empty space. With their yellow-white color among the green grass, they were swinging gently against the wind. I found the biggest one and slowly picked it up. In my childish habit, I rubbed the yellow part kindly with my thumb and then smelled it. The smell of the daisies had not changed a bit, just like the smell of the salty sea next to me.
I put my head down to shuffle through my bag while walking towards the bench near the seashore through the path that I memorized. It would take 54 steps to reach the bench from where I was, or maybe 55. If the small puddle next to the garbage bucket I was going to meet in step 25 hadn’t evaporated, I would just jump over it, which would have decreased the distance to 53 steps.
“Where’s that notebook?” I said while trying to find my little red notepad. I finally found it in the depths it was hiding and took it out. While I was passing over my notes on the notebook diligently, I heard the puddle beneath my right foot. I looked at my wet shoes, got angry at my thoughtfulness, and continued to count while browsing through my notes; twenty-six, twenty-seven …
The bench would generally be empty. People here did not like to sit in this old bank because there was a small wall partially blocking the gorgeous sea, and there was an overgrown bush to its left. Sometimes the kids would come there to hide while playing hide and seek. That’s why I liked it. It was one of the places where people didn’t look at me with strange eyes while talking to myself, laughing, or getting angry at myself.
But the bench was not empty this time. A slim man in his early thirties was sitting on the bench. He was looking at the sea, which was partially blocked by the aforementioned wall, with thoughtful eyes. I wasn’t sure if he realized I was coming. I looked at him and slowly sat down on the space near the bush, just like I did when I found someone on the bench. I opened the notebook on my lap and opened a blank page. I was going to stick the flower to the empty page and write the date next to it. Since that was my last chance to see the flower in three dimensions, I raised it and turned it in my hand.
At that moment, my eyes fell on the man sitting next to me. I thought it was time for me to change the wind and sea sound that filled the air. After all, when there was no one on this bench, I would talk to myself and sometimes turn red. Part of the time I spent here was full of human voice:
“The first daisies of the spring have bloomed,” I said, mostly to myself and a little to the stranger sitting next to me. I turned the daisy in my hand.
I was both surprised and more or less annoyed in his unresponsiveness.
“When they bloom, I come to this park, pick the most beautiful one up, and stick it to my notebook,” I said. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. Look!” I slowly turned the pages of my notebook on my lap. I opened the page of the last year’s daisies. “This one is last year’s. I picked it up on April 17. Exactly one year and 10 days ago.”
I still wasn’t able to attract his attention. I kept turning the pages backward and came across a leaf:
“This leaf belonged to a tree at the entrance of the park last year. They decided to cut it because there was a danger of it collapsing at any moment. The trunk is still at the entrance.” I said and pointed at the approximate location of the trunk with my head.
It was me again that broke the silence of a few seconds when I came to the page with the tiny seashells I glued to the notebook:
“A little girl gave this seashell to me. She had come here to collect them. I think she wanted to put one to her ear and listen to the sound of the sea. The one that she gave me is not big enough to put to my ear, but I remember, she found a huge one. She told that she could hear not just the sound of the sea, but the sounds that were hidden inside the shells. And those of her mother’s. It took her some time to realize that her mother’s voice came not from inside the shell, but from behind. “
I always liked that memory of hers. I still remembered the excitement in the little girl’s face. Later, I never saw her here again. The beauty of the memory created a smile for me, and while I was looking at the page with that smile, I noticed that the man sitting next to me slowly turning his head towards me and smiling. It was evident that he found the story amusing.
“Sounds hidden inside the shell, huh,” he said. “Interesting.”
“Isn’t that too naive? But what if we take it as real?” I replied. There was a slight excitement in my voice, coming both from the stranger’s response and the assumption that the little girl is right. “Wouldn’t it be surprising to hear the words of people who lived centuries ago inside these seashells?”
“You speak as if nature never brought these sounds back to us.” said the stranger. His voice had a tone of seriousness, coming from knowing something that I didn’t. This made me serious, too. I waited a while before answering, and then I asked, “Are you listening to that voice here?”
“Yes, but it didn’t speak much today. Just a few words.”
“Who brought these words here? I’m sure they didn’t come here in your pocket.” I added a little impudently.
He didn’t seem to care much about that. He stood up, bowed his head forward, and greeted me. This was accompanied by a small smile. He took a breath as if to absorb all the wind blowing from the sea. “Listen to the wind,” he said. “It brings me these words.”
I turned my attention to the wind, but its small hum was disappearing among the sea waves. I watched the stranger walk away slowly. I thought he took him for an odd person and focused on my notebook. After sticking the daisy to the notebook, I muttered a little to myself. I wanted to make sure that I would take some notes about the stranger and remember the talk I had with him. After sitting on the bench for half an hour, I moved to get up. I thought once more what the stranger said once the wind blew again. How could the wind carry words? Thoughtfully, I exhaled. “I’ll ask it if we meet again,” I whispered, making my way home.
I did not see the stranger during my trips in the following weeks. I would still sit on my bench, doing what I always did. Although I sometimes found a few young people sitting there, the stranger was nowhere to be found.
I watched the first month of spring pass softly on the bench. More flowers blossomed, dandelions and redbuds began to appear. Our encounter with the stranger would come to my mind whenever the wind blew.
The summer months had come. Since I always found the warmth of this season annoying, I often kept my visits to the bench shorter in the summer. In the afternoon, I took the road to the bench. Fortunately, he was there and sitting with a nervous expression, with all his attention on something that wasn’t there. I sit my spot next to the bench, but this time I did not want to interrupt his meditation. A few hours passed. Later, he decided to acknowledge my presence and said, “So, we met. Tell me. What were you going to ask?” he said.
It took me a few moments to understand the question, and as I was also confused, I couldn’t control my mimics. He laughed at that and said, “When we speak, our voices travel through the universe as long as their energy lasts. Then, it slows down and stops. But they do not disappear. They just hang motionlessly in the air. Think: what if these inactive particles regain their power? This is what I am looking for in the wind. I listen to it, waiting for it to bring back the sounds hanging in the air. Sometimes I catch something, a child’s voice, a bird’s scream. Sometimes short sentences. “
“Like mine?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “So. What were you going to ask me?” he added.
I thought a little, I searched the question that came to my mind months ago. I wasn’t sure if I could find the same question, but I asked the one that I thought was the most correct. “Why do you want to hear these sounds again anyway?”
The question was a little annoying for him, but he must have felt that he owed me an answer. He took a few short breaths and said, “I’m looking for someone’s voice.” said.
“You can go, find that person and talk.”
“I can’t speak to him anymore. His voice is now mingled amongst all other voices in this complex universe. All I can do is listen to the wind and hope his voice comes back.” he added.
I understood that, but I still could not stop myself from saying, “The voices you are trying to hear… Didn’t they actually complete their missions?” He was surprised by my question. I had to explain what I meant. “When these words are spoken, they complete their missions. What good would trying to hear them once again do?” I tried to make my question more clear.
“It can ease out my longings,” he said. “Hearing those things that you will never hear again can make you relive those memories once again. They can make you feel those great emotions once more before you leave this place,” he said. I realized that what he had to say was not over. “I’m listening carefully because some things never happen twice.” said.
We both remained silent for a while. “That,” I started, “- regardless of how much I understand it-, is even more naive than the thought of the little girl collecting seashells,” I said. “Why don’t you focus on what is said right now rather than trying to hear what had been said ages ago?” I asked. It was clear that my question did not affect him very much. He was about to shake his head, thinking that I did not fully understand him. I opened my notebook and continued my words. “The first and most beautiful daisies that have been bloomed in all the spring I have lived in the last 15 years are here. The most beautiful can be this one or that one. But before the next spring comes, I do not know which one is the most beautiful. Maybe I will find a more beautiful, perhaps a bigger, yellower, whiter one. But every spring, I have the hope that the daisies will blossom that year will be the best ones ever. “
“What if no daisies blossom in the next spring? Then, won’t you find yourself looking back at these daisies you gathered in this little notebook?” he asked me. I wasn’t prepared to give the answer, but I tried.
“I might find myself doing that,” I said. “But that still wouldn’t stop me from loving other flowers,” I added.
The stranger took eyes away from me and looked towards the sea. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “But you haven’t been without daisies until today, have you?” he asked. “One shouldn’t promise to direct their love without knowing how it feels not to have what you love at the moment,” he advised.
“Maybe you are right,” I said, copying him. Then I nodded towards the park with a slight grin on my face. “But we’re in the middle of summer now, look …”
“The daisies of this spring have already faded.”