By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
It’s been little things, really. It started with the first time I actually took note of the daffodils blooming. Then it was a few small life events—nothing to write home about—just plans to do this thing or the other. They weren’t extraordinary. But somehow, they took me on an unexpected journey.
I found myself walking down memory lane without meaning to. It was one of those strolls that feels easy—like hugging your very favorite person.
It started with the daffodils.
They have such a soft spot in my heart—not because they are the flower of my birth month, but because my mother loves them. Every year, as winter wanes, she begins scanning the ground for the thick, bright green blades pushing up through the soil. You see, my mother hates winter. She will admit snow is lovely, and she does very much love Christmas—but beyond that, she abhors the season. She does not like the cold, nor the way all her beloved plants and flowers lie gray and bare.
December doesn’t even have to end before she is already on the lookout for the first signs of spring.
I think the earliest she ever spotted daffodils was New Year’s Eve. I was shocked when she gleefully reported her discovery. I personally enjoy winter for many reasons, so I’m not in too much of a rush for it to end. But I do love daffodils. And honestly, I suspect most of my fondness for them comes from my mother.
Yellow is my least favorite color. I don’t like that their blossoms arrive so briefly and then disappear. But I know what those buttery petals do for her. Something deep within her revives with hope—the promise of warmth and sun. I couldn’t not love them, knowing how they make her feel.
And, as a history nerd, I must confess there’s something else. Seeing those yellow clusters arranged in faintly geometric patterns where old homeplaces once stood—where ancient hands carefully planted them, hands that likely treasured them just as my mother does—that adds an entirely different dimension.
Then there is this time of year, with its lovely occasion: the much-revered Daddy Daughter Dance.
Since my daughter began kindergarten, she has gone with her father, dressed to the nines. Interestingly, they never stay very long. Her attention span is fleeting, and apparently once she has made her entrance and danced a dance or two, she becomes quickly uninterested. Every year I am surprised when they arrive home—usually less than an hour after they left.
This year, however, she declared her school’s Daddy Daughter Dance boring and opted instead for a Daddy Daughter Date Day.
And honestly, I get it.
She can customize the contents to her liking. She can guarantee pizza is included. She knows she’ll have a lovely time because she planned it herself. I give her points for preserving the endearing sentiment of the outing while catering to her own tastes—and for the keen awareness of how many brownie points she earns by not requiring her daddy to wear a tie.
But their outings take me back to my own Daddy Daughter dates.
If I remember correctly, ours were regular Friday night occurrences. We would go get ice cream. I cannot for the life of me remember if there was more to it than his vanilla cone and my chocolate-vanilla swirl. It may have been just that—the ride from home, the satisfaction of a sweet tooth, and the drive back again. But I remember it. And I remember how much I looked forward to it.
I smile when I think of the memories my daughter is making during her special time with her daddy—especially now that he has the pleasure of not wearing a tie.
It was just flowers and a trip to the arcade. Simple bursts of color along doorsteps of houses long gone, and my husband and daughter out for a bit of fun. Small in the grand scheme of things.
But the memories they stir in me are lasting.
The stories they are writing on my daughter’s heart will stay with her, too. And someday she will be driving a commute she has driven a hundred times, or living her ordinary family life, when something small and ordinary will make it all come rushing back.
And the unexpected journey will continue—surprising and warming hearts for generations to come.
Prose and Possibilities 