Sunshine

She sang to me: you are my sunshine, my only sunshine. And then one day, she died, as people do.

My sister places daffodils around the room, ready for later, when everyone’s here saying how sorry they are.

She liked daffodils.

She liked it when the family got together.

Shame we waited.

Now we do it without her, when skies are grey.

My sister leaves, and I am alone.

The daffodils seem to glow, and just for a second, I think I can hear her singing.

But I can’t. They’re just flowers. Little bowls of sunshine in a faded room.