Of course I ordered flowers for Easter. Every year, people in our church put up six or seven dollars for a pot of daffodils, or an Easter lily, or a pot of tulips, and the order of service on Easter Sunday prints the dedications for the flowers: In memory of the wonder dog; In honor of family; For my sister who’s fighting cancer. I ordered three pots of daffodils in memory of Mom. Then on Palm Sunday, you get to see all the flowers: banks of daffodils and lilies and tulips at the front of the church. No hyacinths, though, because our minister is allergic to them and wouldn’t be able to preach.

After the Easter service, everyone takes their flowers home. My three pots of daffodils wound up on the kitchen counter behind the stove. Most of the flowers started to fade over the next few days, gradually fading to dull yellow. But I kept watering the plants, and three last buds burst into bloom right after Easter.

Now, a week and a half later, the daffodils are looking pretty sad. The tall green leaves have gone brown at the tips, the stalks are sagging and falling over, and most of the blossoms have shrunk and withered. I thought about trimming back the plants, letting the bulbs dry out and rest so I could plant them next fall.

But those three last blossoms are now if full bloom: three vividly yellow flowers in amongst a score of dull, withered flowers. I decided to let the daffodils alone, and to admire the last flowers until they, too, withered away to nothing.