The month of March is bittersweet for me. I absolutely love spring. I like to walk around my yard every day to see what's peeking out of the soil. I like to see the fresh green leaves on the trees and hear the birds singing through open windows. The tulips and daffodils are the first to pop up, and I check them almost every day to see how they are doing. My daffodils are transplants from my parents' house.
However, daffodils hold another memory for me. My parents planted daffodils at my childhood home years ago and they took over the side fence area and bloom in masses this time of year. Just before my mother died, my father cut a bouquet of daffodils for her, since she was too weak to go out and see them. She died just as they were at their peak.
Only four years later, my father again cut a bouquet of daffodils to take to my aunt's cabin. They, along with another friend, were spending the day in the country, welcoming spring. Shortly after that day, my father too, passed away.
As I watch the daffodils start to bloom in my own flower bed, I hope that they will take over the side of my yard. They seem to have a history of that.