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I could write a poem about daffodils. I could. I could write a stupid poem about daffodils.

And it would be sad and heart-string-pulling and have a strong anecdote to go with it. It’d have a grandmother with no memory and that’s all you’d see.

You wouldn’t be able to see any of the good memories before that. It would only exist as void of happiness as a vase can be empty. It wouldn’t matter that they’re yellow flowers – beautiful! Or that we brought them to her because she likes those best and always comments on the yellow ones. Only the yellow ones. That my mom bought them specifically because they were yellow. That whenever I see yellow flowers I think of her – or that if someone means a lot to me, if I want to show them the utmost respect, I bring them yellow flowers.

Because they’re her.

They are the cross around my neck that she once wore, they are the color blue because it was our favorite. They are tea parties and cookies and seeing her every day. And yet, they are still yellow flowers. And you see them as sad now. But they’re not sad. Because they’re her.

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