Every spring I look forward with great anticipation to seeing the first daffodils bloom, specifically the jonquils. The first day I see them bloom is the official first day of spring for me. (Most years this is sometime around the end of February...the only good thing about February in my opinion). It marks the beginning of warm sunny days that begin to melt the frosty, shriveling, winter cold that always seems to take up residence in my soul. I find myself breathing deeper, longer, easier.
As much as I enjoy what the blooming flowers usher in, I enjoy what they symbolize to me much more. Jonquils are my favorite flower. Yes, they're pretty, yes, they smell heavenly, but these are not the characteristics that make them my favorite. It is the memories associated with them that remind me of a truth that has been an anchor, an example, an ideal to me for as long as I can remember.
Every year, at least as long as I have been in existence (and probably longer), there has come a knock at the front door on any random spring afternoon. Having lived out in the country for the vast majority of my life growing up, a knock at the door was always unexpected, inevitably invoking a "Who in the world could that be?" And year after year, spring after spring, the door opens and D is standing there with his hand behind his back with a bouquet of the first jonquils of spring that he has stopped and picked for Honey, his sweetheart.
I know that as a little girl I just thought it was nice to have pretty flowers in the house. As I grew older I began to appreciate that he was doing something nice for Honey. And as the years have passed I have grown to appreciate the profound beauty in an act so simple and all that it represents. Is it any wonder that the bloom of the jonquils in the spring evoke feelings of warmth, and happiness, and peace in me? The same warmth, and happiness, and peace that I experience when I think of how much my parents love each other.
Throughout the years there were other quiet tokens of affection that would randomly appear. A letter in the mail (mailed from his office) for Honey that would read, "I love you. Do you love me? Mark Yes or No." And there would be drawn on the paper two little boxes, one for yes, one for no. I remember one year he sent her a giant heart-shaped balloon to school for her on Valentine's Day. It was so big she could put it over her head, and there is even a picture of her in my yearbook with this heart balloon resting on her shoulders. These "little" gifts ultimately represented to me the best gifts in the world. Most often costing nothing, or at most a stamp, they were heartfelt, and watching from the sidelines my heart felt!
It has been said that the greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother. And so it has been for me. The love D has shown Honey, and continues to show her, teaches me more than I think he could ever realize. And the love she reciprocates is just as divine. As the years continue to pass, their relationship continues to be filled with so much laughter, and so much love, and the love I feel for them continues to grow even when I think I couldn't possibly love and appreciate them any more than I already do. Rarely a day goes by that I don't include in my prayers my deep, abiding gratitude for the opportunity and blessing to be their daughter.
Do I realize what a rarity they are? Without question. An anchor, an example, an ideal. A profound source of warmth, happiness, and peace.
