I Won't Call This Hell

My mother is a person of two things: lists and interests. She has many hobbies, many things that catch her eye. Like gardening.

"Now, Lynette, grab the daffodils, and pull. I'm planning on saving them for next year, so I can't plant them again and they can bloom."

Pushing my bangs away from my face and pulling them back into my ponytail, I did as I was told. I sought out the flowers, and pulled them from the ground, before tossing them towards my mother.

It wasn't a hard job, pulling daffodils. It just didn't give me too much to think about, which made my mind drift to the phone in my back pocket.

I had my phone on me just in case John called. Of course I didn't want to answer his call, but I didn't want to give him the chance of filling my voice mail with his words and his laugh. I also didn't want to give him the incentive to call back; I was going to answer the phone, tell him to never call me again, and then hang up.

There was also the possibility that he wouldn't call at all. I was okay with that, too, even if that meant I'd been rejected.

There were too many possibilities for one thing. Too many effects to one cause.

"Thats all of them, mama," I said. I stood from my knees, and walked to where she was behind me. She had scissors and hand, and was cutting the daffodils about three inches above the bulb, before then tossing the bulbs into a salad bowl.

"Thanks, hon," she said, smiling at me. My mother and I look almost nothing alike. She has light, golden hair, though it is changing into a light blond-grey now. Her eyes are a deep brown, and her face is a nice heart shape with round cheeks. I look more like my dad, with my dark hair, green-blue eyes, and oval face. The only similarities my mom and I actually share are our noses, which are tiny (or as my grandma used to call it, button-like) and our skinny frames and small hips.

"Here," she said now, handing the scissors to me. I took them and started to mimic what I'd seen her do as she went in the house to get the ringing phone. I had cut 13 more bulbs when she came back, smiling.

"Jeremy's coming home!" she yelled, happy. She clapped a little, still smiling, as she came back to me. "He and Angel are coming back this next weekend to visit. Isn't this great?"

I should have said yes, my older brother was coming home to visit. I couldn't, though. Jeremy was perfect in my mother's eyes. When he at home and still in school he always seemed to somehow find the time to go to football practice, write the essays he needed for his AP courses, do all of his homework, eat all the food in our house, and still do his chores before going out to meet up with the buddies or his girlfriend of the time. Somehow, he was even still the apple of her eye after he knocked up his girlfriend, Angel, the beginning of his senior year. He did everything wrong, yet everything right.

I could never catch a break when he was around, and now he was coming back.