Daffodil Promises

The first fall after we moved into our house we planted daffodil buds all along the fence that faces the street. Every year the lovely yellow flowers brighten our yard. Ohio winters being what they are we eagerly look forward to their blooming each year, as they signal (we hope) the coming of spring at last.

I have come to admire the way these flowers push themselves up through all the leftover fallen  leaves of the previous year.

 

Some years they must poke through late snow. Each year seems like a small miracle. Some years the miracle takes on greater meaning.

A few years back, March was a hideous month.  We marked the 20th anniversary of the death of a dear friend.  The mother of one of my daughter's friends died suddenly in her late 20's. A week later one of my closest friends learned her son had leukemia.   That particular Midwestern winter seemed particularly dreary,  March just dragged on and on. But on the 30th (really a week or two early) I found this in the yard and posted it to my Facebook page:

And somehow things felt better.

So for the last few years I have paid even more attention than before to the sprouting and blooming of our daffodils.  The little green spikes push their way up first, then the tips become yellow.

 At this point  I tend to become impatient, willing them to finally open.

Monday morning when I left for work, I checked the daffodils as usual, but none had opened yet.  I found this inexpressibly depressing. It was Monday, and I was headed to work, and still there were no daffodils.  It was beautiful day too, which meant I stared out the window at the sunshine between calls at work. (Call volume in a 911 center goes way up when the weather gets nicer.) I have seldom been happier to get on a bus at the end of the day. As I made the turn around the corner to our fence I saw this:

 

 Its such a little thing really, but ever since that miserable March a few years ago, this ritual watch for the yellow flowers has become surprisingly important to me.  In the deadest, most depressing time of the year,when it really doesn't seem to be warm enough yet for flowers, a little bit of green and yellow pushes its way through last year's dead leaves and whatever remains of the snow. And part of me feels challenged to do the same.

 Hope returns when the daffodils bloom.

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