The dirt around the mailbox shouted, silently, that something had gone wrong. I saw sadness etched in bare earth.
I’d planted daisies there 11 years earlier. They soon grown tall and produced cheerful blossoms.
In later years, the plants spread and made even more flowers. I saw happiness – happiness in yellow and white.
Then, six years ago, we moved. When I last saw the daisies, they were thriving.
No more. I visited several weeks ago, and …
Not a single dried leaf or stem remained. The mailbox post rose from the splotchy gray-brown earth, its garland of daisies long dead through removal or neglect.
I saw sadness. The daisies, my daisies, were gone.
The moment passed. They were never my daisies. I’d acted as midwife to the potential already encased in a few dozen tiny seeds. The seeds, and then the plants, did the real work – for years. I simply saw what nature had made.
We’ll soon return permanently to that house where daisies greeted mail carriers. It’s time again, I see, to play midwife to happiness in yellow and white.
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