The colour yellow always reminded her of William and Dorothy, the hill of daffodils, an afternoon spent on a hillside in the country. She tried not to dwell often on the couch or the dank dwelling where William probably transcribed the poem from memories of a springtime jaunt with his sister.
Sometimes, she pretended she could float like William’s lonely cloud, “high o’er vales and hills.” Perhaps, 200 years ago, she might have been one, spying on the breathtaking view of that crowd of glorious flowers bobbing in the breeze. She liked to imagine herself as the breeze that urged William to that very spot where his inspiration came alive. She thought of herself as wind, caressing each merry bloom, tossing the golden heads heavenward. They would fall as she flew out to sea to play in the spray. Within a moment’s time she blew back again, raising the daffodils before they had time to cheer or complain.
What a glorious scene it had been! She closed her eyes to remember it more clearly. She smelled the briny air, felt the mist of the crashing waves. Her eyes opened abruptly.
Blast! The water in the sink was splashing over all over herself and the floor. She turned off the spigot and towelled herself down a bit. “Bloody dishes won’t do themselves.” she thought, returning to the task at hand. At least the yellow venetian blinds offered a few minutes of relief from the grind. She reached to open them farther so she could look out the window. No daffodils here, just mud and pavement.