Buttercups

Janice Konstantinidis
2 min readNov 12, 2023

The family existed in a state of perpetual irony as if eternally balancing on the precipice of an unspeakable truth. A grandchild named Janice navigated these thresholds, marked by the earth’s damp kiss on her feet and with eyes reflecting the somber shades of the soil.

A grandmother, her spirit laden with the weight of archaic edicts and the debris of faded aspirations. The grandfather, a man of brisk temper and scant patience, his demeanor but a gossamer veil concealing the ghosts of dreams long since relinquished.

This was the fabric of their household life: the grandmother’s chenille drapes, heavy with the dusk of forgotten days, eclipsing the sun, a silent testament to the paradox of a child’s innate quest for her own light.

This light she sought among the hens, in the gilded heart of buttercups, or within the earth’s embrace that eventually promised a return to itself.

To Janice, the woodshed emerged as a haven from the simmering tensions of the home, yet even there, solace proved a shy visitor; the split wood seemed to echo with the household’s fragmented discourse and the lingering echoes of what was left unsaid.

The grandmother’s words, sharp as ancestral blades — “slut,” “born liar” — were the inheritance of a lineage knotted with disgruntlement and hard-worn bitterness. Janice’s inquiries about her absent mother were met with responses steeped in a lifetime of hardened choices and unyielding judgments.

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Janice Konstantinidis

I am a lover of fine cheese, my dogs, my garden, knitting, photography, writing and more!