There are flowers on offer at the market today; not just any flowers, they’re offering yellow daffodils. Beautiful, creamy-soft, pale lemon daffodils. Flowers perfume the air as I try not to look at the daffodils or sense their aroma calling to me like a long lost friend. Daffodils are uniquely special because they conjure an image of my grandmother; she loved daffodils, not just any daffodils, they always had to be yellow.
I literally race away from the batch of golden flowers.
“Oh, Nana, Nana. My Nan…”
I get into my car and sit. I just sit, while scented, aromas tempt me.
Then…
I yank the door of the car open. I stumble, blind with desire. I rush as if there’s a tempestuous storm on my tail. I rush…
The woman behind the counter sees me. By some act of God, I don’t blush; my haste and the insanity of the moment are upon me. I’m not lucid. I’m not able to string a sentence together in the presence of the crowd in the stall. I stammer; words bubble on my tongue, but they make no sense. I stagnate, like a mad woman. I’m still…
If there is a heavenly benevolence, it shines on me. The woman clears the counter and comes to stand beside me. The flowers perfume us with their understanding. We stand, side-by-side, and then she says :
“How many do you want?”
I’m dumbfounded, speechless. How does she know?
Temptation arrests me with its insanity and I buy them all. Every last pretty little one.
Of course I can’t carry them all and silent black staff member’s with eyes the size of saucers help me to my car.
Do they know? Do they?
I get into my car and it’s quiet. The air is a blissful aroma of memories.
…and there she is, laughing and substantial, sitting with me in the car enjoying the yellow daffodils.
