Daffodils in a Jelly Jar

My Mom brought me a gift from East Texas today. A handpicked bouquet of yellow daffodils in one of my Grandma’s old jelly jars.

 

 

The jar came from a little log cabin that sits upon a big pasture next to a pond. It’s our “family” cabin — one that’s been in the family for years, passed from relative to relative and last occupied full time by my Grandma who died in her bed in the master bedroom surrounded by all the ones who loved her most.

The rooms are still decorated. The house is still abuzz at holidays. And the cabinets are still full of cups and glasses that I’ve drank out of since I was a little girl, some fancy and ornate — and some, simple old jelly jars.

 

 

My parents visited Mom’s hometown this weekend and stayed at the cabin. Mom walked the pasture and pet the donkey (“Donk”) and picked a handful of dashing daffodils that grew against an old fence. I came home from work today and found them on my counter – bright, vivid, smiling, and welcoming me home. It reminded me of my Grandma, of my childhood summers spent in that pasture and of the old, glass jelly jars that I used to drink homemade chocolate milk from. (Grandma made them from real cocoa and sugar, of course).

 

 

And as they bloom, so do my memories of her.

 

 


“I wander’d lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.”

-William Wordsworth

 


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