I was engrossed in the editorial section of The New York Times when the doorbell rang urgently; startling me. It was nearly ten o'clock at night and I had not expected visitors, and I definitely had not expected this visitor. I could barely make out a shape of a person through the dim front lights; it was clearly a woman, with a hat that she was holding onto so it wouldn’t blow away in the howling wind. As I drew closer I could see the familiar golden blonde hair glowing under the lights, but upon opening the door, it was clear that something wasn’t quite right. Her eyes were sunken; there were outlines of dry tears running down her face. Daisy could normally light up a dark room with her presence but today she looked extinguished. I couldn’t help but wonder what could have driven her into this state, but nothing came to mind. What could have troubled her this much? She didn’t say a word as she let herself in.
We sat by the pathetic fire in silence. I didn’t know what to say to her, this wasn’t the Daisy I knew; I’d never seen her look so defeated. She made eye contact with me and smiled; not her usual triumphant smile, this one just looked sad, she stared into the fire as if she was searching for something. I couldn’t imagine what she’d be looking for. But there she was, mentally so far away and I just watched her to see if she’d look up again. She didn’t. I don’t know how long we sat there for. I’d never seen Daisy in a mood like this before, Daisy normally radiated warmth; Daisy was happy. I offered her some tea which she accepted quietly. We sat like that for a while. Later that night she thanked me as I walked her to the door, that same defeated smile on her face. I watched her walk toward her car, I stayed by the door the car grew smaller and smaller as it drove away, I went back to my chair when I couldn’t see it anymore. She never said why she came over.
Written by Abby Jansen
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