It was something about watering the foxglove that he gave me made July seem nearer. Father said that would be when the war would end, and our men would return their rightful soil. The bell-like flowers have not bloomed yet. The foxglove was set by a little drawer near the window. It was the window where Liam would sit by to read, because it was the brightest spot in the house. If the grass was dry and the sun was just warm, we would lie on the grass and his story would be accompanied by the music of chirping birds and rustling leaves.
I remember when I was six and thought myself a man - only that I didn’t know I cannot change my gender by will, and that being a girl wasn’t so bad after all. Liam would take me hiking up the lower cliffs (because we went up a tall one once with Liam’s older brother and father shouted at poor Liam all night) and to the lake near his house, and he could recite the names of all the flowers that was blooming under the sky.
”Those are cottongrass,” he would say, pointing at the dots of fluffy white cotton balls at the peat bog. I prepared to run to them, they looked like clouds on the ground - so pure and pretty. Liam grabbed my hand and pulled me back. “Don’t be stupid, it’s dangerous.”
“Why?” I said defiantly, crossing my arms. “They look like cotton but they don’t look like grass. Why are they called cottongrass? Why can’t I go near them? I would race you there!”
He held back a grimace and walked away from the bog. “Cottongrass grow on deep peat bogs, you should avoid them when you see them unless you want to sink into the ground and drown to death.”
I was about to ask how is it possible to sink into the ground and then drown to death, but he stopped walking and plucked a white-petalled flower with a bulging yellow centre from the ground. “This is an ox-eye daisy. Your mother used to love them very much.”
My heart felt heavy and I avoided his eyes. Liam never knew this, but I hated it when he talked about mother. Mother died the day she brought me into this world, and because father never wanted to talk about her, the only way I got to learn about her was through Liam. It was angered me that Liam wasn’t even her son, and yet he knew her like she had nurtured and loved him his whole life.
“That’s a nice name,” I said absently, trying to avert the topic from my mother. “I’m going to name my son Ox-Eyed Daisy.”
In my six-year-old mind that sounded like a very mature conversation, but Liam dropped the flower and started laughing hysterically. I felt insulted.
“You can’t name your son Ox-Eyed Daisy. You could name you daughter Daisy, but your son is going to hate you if you call him Ox-Eyed Daisy.”
“Of course I can. Father says that’s how the Indians name each other. They have names like One Eye and Arrowhead and Buffalo Toes…”
“They sure are a funny lot of people then.” Liam was finally regaining his breath and decided that it was a bad idea to laugh, because I was already on the verge of tears. “There’s no hurry to give your son a name. You can wait until you have a husband and a son to decide what his name is.”
“I sure am not going to have you as a husband,” I fumed. “I’m going to name my son Ox-Eyed Daisy.”
I chuckled as I recalled that silly bit of memory. I am now twelve and no longer think it’s a necessity to raise my fists with the boys to have my opinions heard. I no longer went down to the lake anymore; seeing the vast land of flowers brought memories of Liam telling me the names of every flowers that grew there, the story behind their names, which one was edible and which one was poisonous. Memories like that bring tears to my eyes, and I cannot allow tears as Liam consider tears as a sign of weakness. Until he comes back, I am going to stay strong. For the day Liam told me that he was going to war and that he may not ever be back, that he was going to risk his life for the people and that I may not ever hear his voice anymore - I cried myself silly, I begged him not to go and I smashed all his potted flowers. Liam never said anything but left me a pot of foxglove the next day, and I never saw him again.
That was a year ago, and Liam was sixteen, not quite a man yet but believed that he was needed in the army to save our land. In the foxglove was a tiny band made of something that looked like grass, something that I did not know the name of. I had never seen leaves like that before. There was an apple beside the pot. I knew then, when I slipped the band into my finger, that my destiny was sealed with his.