Love and Daffodils
Forever
They had
just celebrated their 39th anniversary in April when Bill went for his annual
checkup. Always in perfect health, he was unprepared for what the doctor found.
Symptoms Bill had ignored as "old age" led to questions, palpations,
more questions, and finally instructions for a battery of tests.
"Just to be on the safe side," the doctor said.
When Bill took the news home to Constance, she refused to consider that
it could be something serious.
Fortunately, it was April and the gardens beckoned.
There was more than enough work needed to prepare the beds for the coming
season, and they threw themselves into the now-familiar yearly routine. They
spent their days, as always, surrounded by trays of flowers and bags of mulch,
wielding their favorite trowels.
As the summer progressed, 30 years of gardening
rewarded them with a showplace of color. Benches and swings were
placed amid the bounty of flowers, and they spent nearly every evening during
the summer relaxing and basking in the beauty.
As they worked, Constance began to notice a subtle
change in Bill. He seemed to tire more easily, had difficulty rising from
his knees, and had little appetite. By the time the test results were in, she
was no longer so sure of a good prognosis.
When the doctor ushered them into his office, she knew.
His demeanor was too professional, too unlike the friend they had known
and trusted for so many years. There was no easy way to say it. Bill was dying,
with so little hope of curing his illness that it would be kinder to not even try.
He had perhaps six months left, time enough to put his house in order,
but little time for anything else.
They decided he would stay at home, with help from
visiting nurses and hospice when the time came. Their children were
both far away, one in Oregon and the other in Chicago. They came
for extended visits, but with jobs and children, neither could come permanently.
So Bill and Constance spent the ending time as they had spent the beginning
time, alone together. Only now they had their beloved gardens, a great comfort
to them both for that entire summer.
By September, Bill was fading fast and they both knew
the end was near. For some reason Constance couldn't understand, he seemed
to be pushing her to get out more. He urged her to call old friends and have
lunch, go shopping, see a movie. She resisted until he became so agitated that
she conceded and began making her calls. Everyone was more than willing to
accompany her, and she found she did take some comfort in talking over lunch or
during the long ride to the mall.
Bill passed away peacefully in October, surrounded by
his family. Constance was inconsolable. No amount of knowing
could have prepared her for the emptiness she felt. Winter descended upon
her with a vengeance. Suddenly it seemed dark all the time. Then the holidays
came, and she went to Oregon for Thanksgiving and to Chicago for Christmas. The
house was cold and empty when she returned. She wasn't quite sure how she could
go on, but somehow she did.
At long last, it was April again, and with April came
the return to longer and warmer days. She would go from window to window
looking out at the yard, knowing what needed to be done, but not really caring if she
did it or not.
Then, one day, she noticed something different about
the gardens. They were coming to life sooner than they had in the past.
She went out and walked all around and through the beds. It was daffodils.
Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of daffodils. She and Bill had never
put many spring plants in their gardens. They so enjoyed the colors of summer
that they had only a few spring daffodils and hyacinths scattered here
and there.
'Where did they come from?' she wondered as she walked.
Not only did the blooms completely encircle each bed, they were
also scattered inside, among the still-dormant summer plants.
They appeared in groups all over the lawn, and even lined the driveway to
the street. They ringed the trees and they lined the foundation of the house.
She couldn't believe it. Where on earth had they come from?
A few days later she received a call from her attorney.
He needed to see her, he said. Could she come to his office
that morning? When Constance arrived, he handed her a package
with instructions not to open it until she returned home. He gave no other
explanation.
When she opened the package, there were two
smaller packages inside. One was labeled "Open me first."
Inside was a video cassette. Suddenly Bill appeared on the screen,
talking to her from his favorite chair, dressed not in pajamas but in a sweater
and slacks. "My darling Constance," he began, "today is our
anniversary, and this is my gift to you."
He told her of his love for her. Then he explained
the daffodils.
"I know these daffodils will be blooming on
our anniversary, and will continue to do so forever," Bill said.
"I couldn't plant them alone, though." Their many friends
had conspired with Bill to get the bulbs planted. They had taken turns last fall
getting Constance out of the house for hours at a time so the work could be done.
The second package held the memories of all those
friends who so generously gave of their time and energies so Bill could give her
his final gift. Photographs of everyone came spilling out, images captured
forever of them working in the garden, laughing, taking turns snapping pictures and
visiting with her beloved husband, who sat bundled in a lawn chair, watching.
In the photo Constance framed and put by her bed, Bill
is smiling at her and waving his trowel.