Almost

One of my earliest memories is walking to the end of Smith Road with my mother to pick the first daffodils of spring. In the middle of a stand of trees across from the Ahouse farm, stood a patch of naturalized flowers that seemed never ending. For as many years as I lived there, I would return to that place each spring to harvest a bouquet for Mom. Here in Oregon the daffodils are blooming everywhere. I imagine upstate New York has a while to wait before the first blooms.

This daffodil is almost ready to burst open. Perhaps it senses the deep, frozen soil of the Finger Lakes that still runs through my veins and it's just waiting out of deference. Whatever the reason, this will be the first flower I pick for my mother this year.