They’re 19 years old, at the very least.

The daffodils were there when we moved in. Along with the kid’s signature in the driveway and the weird rose bush that was red the first year, died back to roots, and then was yellow and orange afterwards. An enigma.

They were under the scrubby magnolia tree that has been gone for years. Next to the succession plantings of bushes that subsequently all died too.

Always 2 or 3 white and yellow flowers, never more, despite planting bulbs numerous times, which apparently was just a monumental waste of time and money.

That was enough, and we tried to pull them out, repeatedly. Like a weed, like the mint volunteers that dominate the front planter.

And then buried them deep, inadvertently, during the pandemic..
What wasn’t buried then?
Redid the stairs and built a concrete wall directly on top of them.

We felt a little bad.

Just to watch one. single. daffodil. pop up the next year.

We gave up.

Whatever wants to live SO MUCH. Earned the right to do so in peace.

And now, years later, there’s a bunch, just 2 or 3 white and yellow flowers, never more, half smashed under the wall. Popping up through the snow, when it’s way too cold for anything to grow.

A defiant middle finger in the air to our attempted annihilation.

I feel there is a lesson to be learned from those daffodils.