Back in the day, my dad would give me one sterling pound a week for pocket money. It wasn’t a lot but you could acquire quite a bit with it. For some reason I could never save enough and so on Mother’s day I’d manage to buy at least a card.
Mother’s day in England is in March, the beginning of Spring. Leading up to it, I would bundle up on weekend mornings and venture out into the cool crisp air of our suburban backyard and see if the daffodils had emerged. They would bloom just in time at the exact same spot. I’d carefully pick them and place them in a jar wrapped with ribbon.
Daffodils remind me of England, they remind me of my childhood. They remind me of how my love for nature started and they remind me of Spring. My mother wasn’t all that impressed with daffodils as I was. I would be intrigued how they came back every year and how well put together they were. Their trumpet shaped center mouthpiece protected with more bright yellow petals all sitting up straight on the firm green stem, surrounded with vibrant green leaves. I remember wondering how they survived the harsh British winter and then they’d multiply as they bloomed. I’d be so proud of my accomplishment of picking flowers from the back yard as I’d present them to her. But just like my mother they didn’t last long, except they manage to come back each year and once my mum left she never came back.
This morning I went to greet the delivery person and he handed me a beautiful bouquet of flowers, it’s Mother’s day here in the US. The bright red roses, orange chrysanthemum, white lilies and purple daises arranged stunningly together light up my room, they tell me, my boys remembered. I tell them they shouldn’t go to the trouble, but deep inside I silently wait with anticipation. It’s almost a comfort, of existence, I suppose.
While I sat with my morning cup of coffee and admired all the flowers that filled the bouquet I couldn’t shake off the fact that there was not a single daffodil. I tell myself it’s May and daffodils, they die. I love flowers, but it’s not really about the flowers, it’s about the daffodils. It’s about the ritual that ignites memories of days gone by. These lush flowers remind me of Mother’s day with my boys but daffodils remind me of Mother’s day with my mum.