Yellow Daffodils

by Jason Fisk

According to Henry, the fact that yellow daffodils had randomly sprouted everywhere in their front yard was a miracle, and if wasn’t a miracle, then it was certainly a sign from the other side. Secretly, he wanted it to be a sign from his father who had recently passed away, but he would never dream of telling his wife that.

“Honey, you know that daffodils are plants that grow from bulbs, right?”

“Yes dear,” she said.

“Well, I don’t think plants that sprout from bulbs can spread out across a yard like that, unless someone breaks them up and plants them. This has to be a miracle,” he said, as he poured himself a glass of lemonade.

“Henry, dear, we’ve lived here for less than a year. Maybe it was the previous owners who planted them like that, you know, as a joke or something.”

“Who are you kidding? No one in their right mind would go to the trouble of breaking up daffodil bulbs and randomly planting them in their front yard,” he gestured out the kitchen window to the front yard.

“You never know, maybe it was a prank that some kids pulled… Like throwing toilet paper in trees or something,” she said as she aggressively stirred her post workout protein shake. She seemed to consume it in one gulp,something Henry considered to be un-lady like.

“You can think what you want, but in the meantime, we’ll just let them grow,” he said, looking out the window.

“What do you mean, ‘just let them grow?’”

“I mean, I want them to grow.”

“How are you going to mow the lawn?” she asked, a bit befuddled.

“I’m not, and neither are you,” he said, and forcefully placed his glass down on the tile countertop, hoping the sound would drive his point home.

“What will the neighbors think? I’m sure there’s a city ordinance against letting your lawn grow too high. That’ll be so embarrassing if they ticket us, or mow the lawn themselves and then charge us for it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, and stared at her. “We’re not touching the lawn until the flowers have bloomed and we’ve completely enjoyed their beauty.” With that, he left the room.

Two weeks later, Henry pulled up his driveway and saw that the lawn had been mowed. All of his beautiful daffodils had been destroyed. The yellow petals had been mercilessly chewed up by a mower, and their beautiful yellow petals were now just fragments of browning mulch, tucked neatly under the manicured grass. “Honey, what the hell happened?” he asked, suspecting that the city had been by with their wide yellow riding mowers and quickly cruised over his flowers.

“Well, a nice man who lives right down the street,” she leaned forward, pointing toward his house. “Well, he stopped by and politely asked why we haven’t been cutting our lawn. He was so nice about it, and to be honest with you, I was terribly embarrassed,” she looked at the wall clock. “Well, I told him that you liked the flowers, and that you thought they were a miracle.” Julie didn’t pause; her speech became pressured. “He said that the people who lived here before us had the same problem, and they just mowed over them. He assured me that it was the squirrels that had been digging up, and moving, the bulbs for years. Well, after his visit, what could I do but mow? The whole time I was mowing, I was thinking how sad you would be finding out it was just squirrels, but there you have it, miracle solved.”

Henry sat down at the kitchen table. His posture collapsed as he buried his face in his hands. “Miracle solved?” his muffled voice found its way out from between his hands. Julie didn’t know what to say. She quickly left the kitchen.