“Wait!” I jumped out of the truck and sprinted down the driveway. “There are 7!”

“7? How? Why?” He was just as surprised as I.

The 2 of us stood there, doors ajar, engine running – in the early March snow, when it’s way too cold for anything to grow, 109 collective years of life experience and 6 college degrees between us – and counted them (still half-smashed under the wall) out loud, together.

1-2-3-4-5-6-7.  
An enigma.

Then we silently returned to the truck and to our daily reality, bewildered.

Because the daffodils were there when we moved in and there were always 2 or 3 white and yellow flowers, never more.  Well…except for the years we planted more bulbs, which was always a monumental waste of time and money.  Or when we buried them deep, inadvertently, under a concrete wall when we replaced the front stairs during the pandemic and just one.single.daffodil popped up the following year.

But without any intervention on our part, and after 20 years, the floral equilibrium spontaneously reset to 3X+1.  And it felt off, ominous.  Like a rip in the space-time continuum, a glitch in the matrix.

There must be a lesson to be learned from those daffodils, but what?
Seven wonder(ful daffodils) of the ancient world
Seven day-ffodils of the week
Seven continents (of daffodils)
Seven daffodils road
Seven deadly daffodils
The house of the seven daffodils