Waiting by the school playground this morning I was entranced by the shoots of Daffodils, six inches high in the grass. How I look forward to the flowers themselves but I'm pressing time forward. The blooms always remind me of my father. Daffodils were always blooming on his birthday. On the day he died, I picked the first open flowers in his garden to show him as he lay on his bed departing from us. The more I hope for the new season's Daffodil blooms the further away my father retreats.
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