She brings them with her, and while she is here their little bundle lays on top of the fridge and shivers from time to time, as do I. Later we put them in the perfect vase. Each stem falls into a fold – splayed like a gentle explosion. They lean like they would in the wind if the wind could blow in all directions at the same time. And today, at times, it felt like it did.
* * *
The daffodils she gave us are nearly spent. Over the last few evenings they have started to give off a floral scent. A faint premonition of imminent decay. As if to remind us not to forget them before they are gone. In all that’s going on it’s easy to overlook mere daffodils.
* * *
A week after she gave them to us her daffodils died. On the same day she met her first child. We replaced them with a second bunch – how quickly we grow to depend on their presence. And these ones saw us through the snow, standing firm while our one wild one fell at the first fall. They looked like the ones we made when we were young, when painting sections of an egg box was considered fun.
* * *
We welcome our third one-pound bunch – twenty stems bound together like yellow-tipped green pencils. They will be ready in a day or two to draw a small picture of spring. We stand them in the wide-necked vase and let go. Like a game of pick-up-sticks stalled at the start. Like this spring, repeatedly halted by winter’s freeze-frame.