When Frank and I were first married, I insisted (sort of arbitrarily) that daffodils were my favorite flower. In the Columbia Basin in Washington (which was our home for 25 years, more or less, until last July), daffodils appear in time for my birthday at the end of March. My flower declaration was a subtle setup for a test, poor Frank, and he was (unfairly) measured and weighed and found wanting. He couldn’t remember what my “favorite” flower was called, or even what color it was. (He also had a hard time remembering the color of my eyes… it just wasn’t one of those important details).
Spring comes later in Northern Utah, I’m learning after our first long winter here. Much later, it seemed to me, as February dragged by, and then my birthday, and as snow came and went and came and went (we had some again, last week). I admit I became homesick for the milder winters and earlier springs in Washington. So today when Nora and I saw daffodils blooming at a cute little old house in our town, I had to take a picture in celebration.
I wonder what Frank would say now, after nineteen years, if I asked him what my favorite flower was. “Oh, I don’t know… Magnolia?” he says.
Daffodils, At Last
