Daffodils take me back to my five-year-old self, when I picked the flowers for my kindergarten teacher from my Mom’s carefully tended beds, wrapped the stalks with a dripping wet paper towel, then crumpled aluminum foil around the stalks as a makeshift vase til I could get them to school and proudly thrust them at my teacher.
Mom loved her beds of bright yellow daffodils and deep purple hyacinths. I loved watching the plants sprout through layers of pine needles, sometimes through remains of snow, and made bets with myself guessing how long it would be before the buds blossomed. I never was right, though I told myself I was.
I love that daffodils have such a scant smell. A sweet one, though. One of memories. One of winter ending and spring just arriving. One of happiness and joy to come.