Written by: Barbara Ann Hall

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Marylou listened to the endless ticking of the clock as she lay in bed desperate for sleep. She had been restless for weeks it seemed, but could not understand why. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. As she lay there, her mind drifted through the rooms of her life.

Silently, Marylou crept down the stairway of the old home her father and grandfather had built well over 100 years before, thinking about how many times she must have traveled those stairs over the course of her lifetime. As she descended, she could almost hear the laughter of her father from the days she and her siblings would race up those very stairs and slide down the banister. Each night, after daddy kissed them goodnight, he would set the mark, count to three, then cheer them on as they raced full speed ahead for the stairs. Then he would let out a hearty laugh as all four children came sliding down the banister and tumbling over one another as they reached the bottom landing!
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She and her siblings had been born and raised in that little home that stood tall and proud just beyond the bayou on a beautiful stretch of farmland that reached far beyond what the eye could see. The land had belonged to her father's family for generations, and the family cemetery, which slept just outside their backyard, could probably tell much of the family's history in itself. Marylou always cherished her family, both past and present, her home, and the rich land of her roots. From childhood, she could envision herself being grown, as a perfect flower, from it's very soil. So, as her siblings moved on and her parents passed away, Marylou considered herself blessed to be the one who remained to carry forth the family legacy.
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Reaching the bottom landing, everything seemed peaceful in the much familiar living room. Marylou sat on the arm of the sofa and leaned forward to smell the yellow daffodils she had picked earlier that day, or so it seemed. The smell of daffodils always flooded Marylou's mind with endless memories. The delicate flowers would grow in clusters starting as early as late February and bloom richly throughout the upcoming season. Often she would pick batches to bring indoors to brighten up her life. Sometimes, she would fill a vase in every room. As she sat there, she allowed herself to enjoy a memory of years ago. The day she planted three little daffodil bulbs in the ground. It was a cool, sunny day in early Spring and she remembered the coolness of the morning breeze as she knelt and gently patted the ground over the prepared soil, praying for God to bless and multiply her efforts. Now, she smiled at the realization that He had. She had never really thought about that simple fact before, and she felt an overwhelming joy fill her heart as she thanked Him. Thanked Him for answering her prayer and for the years of enjoyment that blessing has brought into her life.
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Rising over the sweet smell of daffodils, Marylou could smell the heavenly aroma of freshly baked buttermilk biscuits and without hesitation she continued to the kitchen. She had prepared handmade biscuits almost every day of her married life for her family to enjoy, their favorite being breakfast, hot out of the oven, with butter and fresh strawberries or orange marmalade.
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Sitting, Marylou poured herself a hot cup of tea and spread a pat of sweet, creamy butter onto a warmed biscuit. As she took her first bite, the clock struck midnight. Taking a long, deep sip of tea, she remembered the days she and her family would enjoy Saturday afternoon Teas at that very table; talking, singing and laughing together long into evening. It was often a time stories of old were told, dreams were shared and good news was revealed. It was a cherished family tradition started by her grandparents and kept alive by her children. Oh, how she looked forward to Saturdays!
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As the memory faded, Marylou was once again aware of the clock's tick. She was so tired, but sleep wouldn't come. She walked to the back porch and sat on the double wooden swing, pulling her robe tightly around her shoulders. Feels like rain, she thought to herself as the winds picked up, rippling the screens around her. Back and forth, Marylou swung, back and forth, listening to the rhythmic squeal of the swing's chain. I must oil this old thing, she thought, as she realized she had probably thought that same thing hundreds of times over the years, but the truth of the matter was, she had grown quite fond of the old familiar annoyance. One that had lulled her babies to sleep, established the perfect tempo for her husband to compose little ditties, and encouraged the dogs to scratch their ears. That old swing, hand built by her great grandfather many years before, held many years of happy memories for Marylou. The swing was made from an old oak tree that was cut down to clear the land her house was built on. Artistically carved in the wood, by her great grandfather, were the names of her family members alive at that time, starting with himself and ending with her father. Her father had often wanted to add the names of his children and grandchildren, but felt that perhaps it should be left as the hands of his grandfather had left it. Marylou understood her father's feelings, but she could not deny that through the years, and even still today, she wished her name had been added.
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The chain's squeal turned back to ticking as the clock beside Marylou's bed marched forth. Rising from the swing, she opened the screen door and stepped out into the yard. The night air was slightly misty as Marylou strolled through the gardens. They were more beautiful than ever, she thought, even in the chill of winter. Although the fruits of the gardens slept, Marylou could still see the delicate yellow and pink roses blooming everywhere, Pussy Willow and Rose of Sharon bushes prospering, and of course, thick patches of yellow Daffodils growing abundantly! Past the gardens, she continued her stroll through the family cemetery, remembering the times she would spend there as a child. It was her favorite place to be and she would spend hours cleaning headstones and planting flowers, often wondering about the lives of those buried there. Wondering about the roots from which she came, like the flowers she so loved. She walked to the old willow tree and knelt to pray at the foot of her parent's grave. Rising, she scattered a handful of rose petals to the wind before returning to the house. The mist turned to rain.
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As Marylou walked past the swing, she gave it a gentle push, as she glanced once again at the names of her family, before heading back through the kitchen, breathing deep the faithful aroma of homemade biscuits. Returning to the living room, she admired once again the bouquet of bright yellow daffodils, before ascending back upstairs and unto her library. A small room filled with hundreds of books. Some bulging from tall bookshelves and others stacked neatly in piles along the walls. Over the years, she had read everyone. In the midst of her collection sat an old plush chair, small table and antique floor lamp. She clicked on the lamp, flopped into the comfortable old chair and picked up the book that lay on the table. My Bible! Isn't that funny how it lay right here with book marked pages, and yet it seems like an eternity since I last held it in my hands! Although her thoughts felt an eternity, her hands did not hesitate to strategically flip through her favorite book of Acts. Hearing the ticking of the clock once again, she glanced up, 2:28 PM!
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Marylou stood, placed her Bible back on the table, turned off the light and closed the door behind her before walking down the hall to the bathroom. Perhaps if I wash my face with a warm cloth it will help me sleep, she thought. Opening the bathroom door, she flipped on the light and grabbed a clean washcloth from the shelf. She turned on the faucet and allowed the water to warm for several moments. The warmth of the water was comforting as she pressed the clothe against her eyes. I should sleep now, Marylou thought, as she envisioned the many nights she had done that same thing and allowed the soothing process to work it's magic. But, as she stood there, the ticking of the clock only grew louder, tick... tick... tick... tick...
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When have I last explored the attic? It was very late, but Marylou's overwhelming urge to visit the attic blotted out her exhaustion. When have I last looked through the photos of my life or fancied my wedding dress? A heavy mustiness filled her nostrils as she slowly opened the attic door and anxiously ascended the stairs. The hot air laid heavy on her skin as she cautiously felt her way to the center of the room and pulled the long rusty chain that turned on a single light bulb, casting shadows into the far corners of the long, narrow room. Once her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she spotted the old trunk that held her beloved wedding dress. Gently, Marylou lifted the dress out and held it in front of her as she drifted back in time. Wonderful memories filled her spirit as she twirled around the room. Oh how we danced on the night we were wed... la la la la la... Then, just as quickly as the memory came, it was gone.
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Marylou tucked the wedding dress neatly back into the trunk and glanced around the room hoping to find her photos. Squinting brought into focus several photo boxes stacked on an old shelf in the corner of the room. She quickly made her way over and began to flip through the photos. She reminisced, laughed and cried, wondered and dreamed, as she looked at the photos of years gone by. It felt as though she had been there for years before once again the ticking of the clock emerged in her soul.
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Stacking the photos neatly back on the shelves, Marylou made her way to the center of the room, glanced around once again at the overflow of her life, and turned off the light.
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Back down stairs, sitting on the end of her bed, she took a small sip of sherry, a sleeping aid of many years, and laid back down, more anxious than ever for sleep. Tick... tick... tick... tick... at last, a peaceful sleep overtook her.
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As she lay resting, Marylou heard the soft whisper of her daughter... momma... momma. Ah my sweet little angel, mommy is here. Is it time to bake the biscuits already? Marylou tried to utter, as she once again heard the ticking of the clock.

Please, don't wake her, a nurse interrupted, she's been awake most of the night. In fact, every night since she moved in. I know, the daughter replied, I can feel her spirit in the house.

Then she gave her mother a gentle kiss on the cheek, arranged the daffodils in the vase by the side of her bed, and quietly closed the door behind her. As Marylou lay tucked into bed, she smiled at the old familiar aroma of sweet daffodils as once again she began to drift through the rooms of her life.