The Daisies.

Florence came into the pharmacy to collect her prescription today. I read the first line of her address, "The Daisies". The daisies was a quaint and curiously fantastic dream of hers; a dream that seemed to fulfil a childhood longing, a longing for a beautiful rose cottage with an obedient and loving husband of 50 years, strengthened by each waking day. A head of flowing sunshine of innocence and hope, an idealistic and sheltered mind, and a heart with one singular ambition.

When looking for a home The Daisies touched her arm in a loving motion. She stirred inside; a half-smile attached itself to her spirit. There would be no other place quite like the charm of living in a place with such a delightfully cheery name. She'd hang baskets of flowers, and water them daily, greeting neighbours with a huge smile as she collected the milk from her doorstep for the first cuppa of the day.

Today, Florence is riddled with arthritic pain and the despair of loneliness. The loneliness of the expanse of the distance between her reality and from the hopes she still holds, like a sweater of the deceased; a lingering scent of what was.

Quietly broken, Florence collected her pills and departed from the store after a well felt thanks to the store assistant. She would return to her number 5 flat and make a cup of tea for herself while dishing out food for her pet cat "Tibby".
Her life centred around the small yet convenient area of The Daisies, Westons pharmacy, and Sainsburys. The world had become so small, yet utterly consuming.

Tonight, she would go to bed early, as she has done for as many years as she cares to recall. The years are now overstretched, and in the same instance, a fast blur of similarity.

The daisies no longer grow.