oh my god, it still means a lot to me

Dear K-

It brought a smile to my lips, if nothing else. I cannot thank you enough for allowing me to fall back upon you whenever I stumble and to let you gently chide me for being a foolish little bird and somehow manage to calm my neurotic tics. Sometimes I fall apart a little and the stitches pull too tight and the threads begin give way. But there you are, needle poised ready between two clumsy digits, ready to wet the threads with blood if that be what it takes to set it all right again. Please don’t tell anyone about the bad days. Please don’t tell them that some days I don't think I’m worth much at all.

In the garden of my parents’ house, back when I was young, I remember I would beg my mother to fill the beds with daffodils. I would thumb through the seed catalogs we received in the mail and circle all the varieties I wanted to order to fill the garden. There were miniature daffodils, daffodils of soft white and peach, some of almost neon yellow hues, and even some that looked like scrambled eggs. Come March and April, as soon as I saw the first purple peeping of the crocus, I knew that soon my garden would be aglow.

It made me happy. Everything about them warms me- their cheerful demeanor, their light pollen scent, even the way the frothy sap drips from their thick stalks when I harvested them to fill the vases in my bedroom. Once I even brought a bouquet to school and handed out individual flowers to friends. I don’t think they appreciated it as much as I would have.

Around this time of year, now that I’m older, I think back to my parents’ garden and miss it a little. And you know I don’t often miss anything at all…But the daffodils, these I do miss.

I miss daffodils.

Thank you for being there,
-K