Ding-ding, ding-ding, Daisy knows where to go. It's a cold and foggy winter morning and this doesn't play nice with her old bones. She is 17, and even if John covers her body with the little wool blanket coat Mary made her two winters ago, she moves with more difficulty than desire, one step at a time, over the snowy grass of the park. Every day, when trying to warm herself up laying in front of the fire after their hour long walk, she thinks she won't be able to do it again. That her legs won't respond next morning, when John grabs his hat while rolling a scarf around his neck and opens the door calling her name.
Ding-ding, ding-ding, John doesn't need to look back to know Daisy is following him. He walks slowly, at her pace, while ringing every now and then the little copper bell he holds in his hand, the one Mary bought him, three winters ago, when Daisy lost her sight. He knows Daisy doesn't like the cold, and he doesn't like it much either. At 87, he is too old for these long morning walks, or so his doctor says. But John knows that if he doesn't push Daisy a little through the winter, she might not enjoy a summer again.
Ding-ding, ding-ding. Daisy liked it better when they were three. She used to be the one running ahead, having to wait every now and then for Mary and John, always walking with a smile and holding their hands. Even if she didn't understand much of what they said, she liked to hear their conversations, always full of colourful sounds and laughters. Daisy misses their summer picnics, when John still had the car and they drove away from the noise, the heat and the smoke, with a basket of food and a bottle of wine, and spent the sweet afternoons under the big oak tree, over the blanket that now covers her back. But Mary left them last winter and they are only two now. John doesn't smile anymore, and his hands only hold now the little bell he still thinks Daisy needs. The winters seem colder and the walks feel harder now without Mary, even for John. But Daisy knows that if she doesn't push John a little through the winter, he might not enjoy a summer again.