Most of our yard has that strange mix of greens, browns, and grays that you see this time of year, when winter is supposed to be firmly planted, but spring keeps trying to nudge it on outta here. (That's especially true in a year like this, when we've had very little true winter.) Amidst all of my bare trees and dormant azalea bushes is one small spot of pure joy. I've always been a little fuzzy on whether these are daffodils or jonquils—think I'll go with daffodils for now. I was tempted to gather them all into a bouquet for the Story Shack but decided, instead, to leave them in the yard so the neighbors can enjoy them, too. We lost so many trees in our neighborhood during last year's tornado, and the ones that are left look like this right now . . .
So I think a little cluster of yellow will do us all a world of good. These particular daffodils are special because Daddy helped me dig them up from my grandmother's house. I'm pretty sure my Aunt Vivian planted them, with help from one of her brothers, many, many years ago. The daffodils used to run all the way up Grandme's driveway and spill out of two flower beds that flanked the steps leading up to the front porch. Every year when they bloom, I think of Aunt Vivian, who was what you might call a human daffodil. She had a way of brightening up any spot and bringing a smile to every face. And so, while I left most of her daffodils in my yard to share, I did pick one and laid it beneath her picture. Spring is coming. I just know it.
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