I absolutely could not resist these two bunches of daffodils when I saw them in the grocery store on Thursday evening. The bouquet came with a tag that proclaimed, in a gentle and friendly way, that the daffodils were grown in Ireland and sent like the glint off a pot of gold across the misty Atlantic. It implied that the daffodil workers thought of each individual bundle as a personal gift for the Americans (possibly their long-lost relatives?) who would find them in the grocery store and whose evenings would be warmed by the crinkly yellow petals. The pot of daffodils were grown in Canada, with a more prosaic tag. But they were just green shoots, which meant I'd be able to watch them, hoping and waiting.
On Friday when I woke up my daffodil pot had already bloomed! I was overjoyed and basked in the tremendous treat of yellow I had gotten for myself. I felt that I deserved the flower after a long, hard winter, when I realised that this winter has been neither hard nor particularly long. In fact, it hasn't really arrived yet. As happy as I am to see my daffodils each morning, they feel a little bit like sneaking into the present hiding spot before Christmas.
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