Our house stands in a shady yard of tree roots and clay soil. There is no grass. When we put in a raised bed, it took three years for weeds to grow.
So it melts my heart to see the lone daffodil beside the basement window.
In a stealth garden maneuver, my mother planted a few bulbs around the house. This particular flower does not have the loud technicolor I see in neighbor’s gardens. Rather, it has cream-colored petals and the palest yellow trumpet.
My mother planted it when our college-aged son was a toddler. Eager to visit their grandchild, she and my father would drive out for the day to babysit or help paint a room. That was when we had birthdays together with my mother’s favorite carrot cake or my father’s favorite lemon pie.
She planted bulbs knowing about the joy a little yellow flower would bring each spring.