He was an avid gardener and enjoyed the beauty of a well-manicured yard. He gave me some bulbs (soon after he discovered the variety) and encouraged me to plant them. I did. I had the perfect place--the earthy square beneath my mailbox. They bloomed the next spring and made me happy.
For several springs I saw them bloom, and then we moved. . . only two streets away. But, it was winter. I could no longer claim those tiny springtime blossoms as my own.
I drove by our old house today and saw that they had grown into thick sunshiny clumps. Still welcoming spring with their petite faces.
A couple years ago my mom decided it was time to do some dividing, and I was the welcome recipient of a new crop of these miniature daffodils for my current home. They are offspring of the original bulbs my father bought. I love them. They make me happy.
Funny how a simple thing can stir my remembrance, reflect my mind heavenward, and still make me smile.