My mother planted daffodils one spring.
I failed to see the simple pleasure of moving earth over unbloomed bulbs when I was 10.
Every year she marveled as tiny stalks pushed forward and smiled with perfect yellow petals.
At 14, a new house, new yard, more overtime.
Scarce moments found to dig new holes.
On long, quiet walks I would find wild flowers blooming.
I’d gather them in my fist as if I were 6.
Tender hugs and smiles rewarded as those tiny yellow flowers sat proudly in a vase.
I was 15.
Years pass. Petals bloom and die.
I walk with kids on my hips.
My mother planted sunflowers one spring.
I was 33.
I could hear the pride in her voice as they overcame the wilting Texas heat.
One July I touched the petals, soft and velvety.
August I arranged a bouquet of beautiful yellow flowers on her casket as I said goodbye.
I was 39.