A Single Daffodil [Harry Styles]

Left Side vs. Right Side.

"Good morning, Mrs. Baker!"

I made sure my morning greeting was loud enough for Mrs. Baker to hear through her hearing aid, but not loud enough to wake up the rest of our neighborhood. It was, after all, only eight in the morning.

Mrs. Baker was swallowed up by her oversized, blue dressing robe. The hemming was almost touching her driveway and the tied knot around her waist was hanging much lower than it should be. Her grey-tinted curls were in a big heaping mess of bun that sat on top of her head that slid sideways when she went to pick up the morning paper that sat on the edge of her driveway. By the time she stood up straight, I was already pedaling past her yard. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I caught the last of her friendly wave in my direction, before she disappeared behind her neighbor's untrimmed hedge. I knew that was driving her crazy. She liked having a pretty front yard.

It was a beautiful Friday morning, and also the first day of summer. I was ecstatic. I had every intention of sleeping in after a nauseating finals week full of stress but I just couldn't do it. The new sense of freedom left me hyper and feverish for a new day. Around seven this morning, I ripped the duvet covers off me, brushed my teeth, grabbed the bunch of daisies I picked the night before and hopped onto my electric blue beach bicycle.

My dirty blonde hair whipped and twisted through the ocean breeze as I sped out of my neighborhood and cruised down Ocean Boulevard boardwalk. Seagulls chirping and swaying above, palm trees shaking their trembling leaves and the distance sounds of cups clinking and spoons twirling milk into freshly brewed coffee was a refreshing sound to hear. It was my personal magic hour in South Beach. Tourists were still asleep in their five-star hotels, meaning the locals were out to enjoy their own paradise. It was also early enough to enjoy the last moments of the golden sun before it broke into Florida's muggy summer heat.

I cut past morning traffic and made a swift turn into the neighborhood adjacent to Ocean Blvd. After a couple of turns throughout the neighborhood, I finally came to a halt outside of 113 Seashell Lane. I threw my right leg over my bicycle and wheeled it into the driveway.

I always visited my Grandpa Gene on Saturday mornings, Tuesday evenings and Thursday afternoons. He lived alone, save for his ginger cat, Robin, so I made a point to visit him as much as possible when I didn't have school or work.

If there was one thing you needed to know about my Grandpa, it was this: Grandpa Gene hated being Grandpa Gene. "I'm not that old!!" He'd declare, "I'm just Gene! Just Gene!"

Well, Just Gene was an artist. A marvelous, impressionist painter --to be more specific-- who could paint anything under the sun and make it into a masterpiece. He liked experimenting, that's for sure. Sometimes you'll catch him painting a canvas so abstract, you wouldn't be quite sure how to turn your head. Other times, he dabbled in the art of realism, and you'd catch him in the act of painting a beautiful flower or a portrait of a woman. He loved painting in unusual colors, but his favorite ones always had light tints of grey. You could find him in his sunroom in the early morning, the garden in the late afternoon, and at the kitchen table when sunset was lurking the farthest corners of the sky. He didn't let anyone or anything prevent him from his artwork, and that was including the trying twitch in his left hand which was evidently, also his painter's hand. It started when I was ten, meaning he was only sixty-two when it started to bother him. I've heard him curse it to hell every now and again when he'd get frustrated that color didn't hit the canvas correctly but nowadays, he's learned to embrace it which makes me happier than the cat's meow. I didn't like seeing my father's father upset. He was the only grandparent I ever grew up to know and love.

But, you know, he was just Gene.

I grabbed the bunch of daisies sitting in the front basket of my bicycle and walked across the stone path and straight for the front door. I could already hear the faint sound of a Billy Holiday song, the sweet olden melody drifting softly throughout the house as I opened the door; his musical taste has always been fixed in the 1940s. Grandpa Gene's house always had a peculiar smell when I'd walk into the foyer of his small bungalow. It was always a mixture of freshly brewed Cuban coffee and fumes from a new can of acrylic paint. To me, that smelt like home.

"Is that you, Vita?" Grandpa Gene called from the sunroom.

"Yeah, it's me!" I called back as I headed into the kitchen.

"Coffee's waiting for you if you'd like it!" He yelled once more from the sunroom.

As always, there was an empty mug waiting next to the full pot of coffee. He always left out a mug by the coffee pot on Saturdays. It was a reminder that he too looked forward to our Saturday morning rituals.