It was one of those days. She felt like curling back up into her toasty flannel sheets. Cold seeped through the covers and she got up, raw and lonely, to make the boys’ lunches. The coffee smell wafted up the staircase, beckoning a nauseous stomach with promises of energy and focus.
Exhausted and empty, she obeyed her hopeful nose. The sandwiches were
assembled: string cheeses and puddings, apples and pretzels. Hats, mittens, and library books were packed.
And then there was the snippet of quiet between the boys’ breakfast and the bus arrival. She crouched above the foyer heating grate, soaking in all the heat her body would accept, when the boy shouted, “Mom, come here! Where are you?” She drew away from the warmth, the last vestiges of her cozy bed, to see what the child needed. “Mom, I have a surprise for you. Come here,” he begged as he lent her his hand and drew it to the porch railing. As she left the bottom step, he drew her to the front yard, leading her hand toward the ground. The cool, satin petals shocked her fingertips. Fat, rigid tendrils of silken fabric greeted her. Those familiar ridgs and fluting. The fibrous, waxy stem. Her favorites. “Smell it,” he commanded.
In the brisk, sterile morning air, she thought she smelled the faintest of daffodil scents, those that only the hopeful can perceive. She grabbed the boy by the shoulders and pulled him hard to her. “Thank you. You know they are my favorites.”And she began her day again, this time with courage and gratitude.