Newspapers litter the table. Breakfast is over but the crumbs remain, the chairs pulled out, the kitchen counter unwiped. It’s a sign of a slow morning. There’s a little rain wafting down from the battleship grey sky and yet, it’s beautiful.
I can totally understand this idea of “Oh to be in England now that spring is here...” There’s an absolute majesty about spring busting out on this island. I’ve never been here in March and the colors are a painter’s paradise.
Everywhere I look, not only are the trees and bushes filled will pregnant buds, but roundabouts and swales explode with bobbing yellow daffodils. On and on they come, after the snowdrops which were like a gentle prelude of things to come.
Yes, the snowdrops, pushing out of the hard ground, almost tender, frightened ... White as the snow they sometimes have to work through, with little tender green dots on their upper side, shy and delicate, holding their precious treasure under a bowed head. They’re amazing.
And like any great prelude or overture, they gracefully give way to the major movement, the star of the show, the daffodil. My goodness and what a show they put on. Daffodils like I’ve never seen them. In groups. In clusters. In herds. Tall and short. Mostly dazzling yellows. They pop up in the most unexpected places and can’t help but bring a smile to my face. It’s such a tonic for this tough time.
Under benches, in front of swings, between gnarled old tree roots and stumps, in the middle of pristine lawns - these precursors of spring push out without regard for borders, places or constraints. It’s funny sometimes, especially when they’re on a roundabout, I’m approaching at 50 mph and suddenly there’s a pool of yellow - swaying, bobbing, hypnotically in front of me - calling me. And I gaze over my right shoulder .... I watch them, mesmerized as I go round and then I realize I’m going round the roundabout again. Just looking at them and I’ve missed my exit, again. Who cares?
What’s so hypnotic about puddles of yellow daffodils? I think it has something to do with the vibrancy of the color itself. Also I remember being told that in a child’s drawing, the sun represents the child's father. The sun is yellow. Bright yellow and it calls me.
My Dad is dying, the daffodils are like pools of sunlight fallen down to earth. My Dad is dying and everywhere there is life in the color of vivid sunshine and all I want to do is throw myself into the arms of yellow.
My Dad is dying and there is nothing I can do to help him, nothing I can do to stop it happening, and nothing I can do about these daffodils that hypnotize me in spring in England.
It's a slow morning and all I want to do is press the pause button, for Dad, for us, for me ... for daffodils.