Perfume

There they are again.   While we thought they slept, they were doing their Sisyphus thing, pushing up through the hard earth.   Tender shoots against gravity, against rock, against the dark.

Fifty years ago John’s parents planted hundreds of these bulbs under the linden trees at the old house.   Happily, they also planted some up here at the vineyard.   A generous gift on their part, as they were never around in Spring to see them.

Until the day of their burial.   That morning their granddaughters collected golden armfuls to greet every mourner at the tomb site and lighten the sorrow.

Today my daffodil pilgrimage takes me to the vineyard cottage where they always pop up suddenly after the February rains.   Their brilliance burns my eyes, but it is their incessant, incremental spread that gives me pause.    Fifty years on, they tunnel hidden roads and then pop up in the oddest places.   Under the rosemary bushes.   Far away under the plum trees.    Scattered amidst the stones of the old bread oven.   Fifty years on their flowers are a dance of golden froth.   Petals thin and delicate as parchment.

And yet, perhaps not so delicate.

It is their perfume that clues me in.  There is nothing like the perfume of these old-variety daffodils.  Sweet, yes or we wouldn’t call it perfume.   But something more.   The alluring top notes cede to an earth smell.   The scent of rhizomes cutting through stone.   The exhalation of minerals.

Consider the tons of soil these shoots have pushed over the years.   Thrusting like little bulldozers, multiplying their bulbs, carrying precious cargo.

So here I am in the throes of winter gloom, and there they are in frilly dresses that cloak their flinty strength.

I take in their perfume.   It is the perfume of resilience.   Of rising up through rock.

While bombs fall and clouds darken, these shimmering flowers are my personal host of hope.

A childhood classmate passed away recently.   She was remembered by friends as a superwoman for her courage and generosity.   During her illness she gave out little Jesus statuettes to everyone – friends and strangers.   She said, “everyone needs a little Jesus.”

If I could, I would give out daffodils.

Peace.