Read by Christy Page

AAh, the first daffodil of the season—nature’s way of saying, “Wake up, it’s Spring!” But in my world, it’s more like the daffodils saying, “Watch out, we’re ready for another round of wiffle ball!”

Picture this: yesterday, we basked in 60-degree glory, and today? A chilly 30 degrees. Yet, there they were, those cheerful daffodils, grinning like they knew a sunny secret. I can’t help but salute their optimism; they’ve seen enough Winters to trust that Spring is on the way.

Flashback to the teenage years of my boys, when our front yard transformed from a garden to a wiffle-ball haven. Dirt patches marked bases, car headlights lit up evening games, and laughter echoed through the air. Then, one Fall, I dug a trench and planted 100 daffodil bulbs, blissfully thinking they’d put on a show come Spring. Little did I know, the daffodils had plans of their own.

Come March, I played the role of the overly enthusiastic daffodil cheerleader, monitoring their growth like a proud parent. When April arrived, the buds teased with yellow tips, and on the first warm day, the daffodils bloomed. It was also the opening day of wiffle-ball season—a floral home-run derby, if you will.

Post-game, I half-expected complaints about my flower-filled field, but to my surprise, my son Tim declared, “Mom, the flowers were great! Could you plant them every year? They kept the ball from rolling under the hedges.” A eureka moment! What else could enhance my front yard and their game?

Enter my boyfriend, armed with good intentions and a weed whacker. Eight hours later, my blooming beauties were casualties of his yard cleanup. The conversation that followed was a lesson in horticultural heartbreak. But worry not, dear daffodils, for ten years later, you still bloom despite the occasional run-in with the garden tools.

Fast forward through a decade of growth, both floral and familial. The wiffle-ball field has transformed into an enchanting garden. Pitcher’s mound? Now an arch adorned with grape hyacinths. Home plate? Surrounded by tulips and memories of games past. My boys have grown, my boyfriend is now my husband, and my garden has blossomed alongside our love story.

As I stand in my front yard today, surrounded by the promise of blooms, I ponder the future: where will my grandchildren play? The backyard, I reason, but they’d better hurry with those grandbabies, or I might just start a few flower beds back there. After all, every garden deserves its own innings of joy and laughter. ❖

 
About the Author: Anne Cognato writes and gardens on Long Island, NY. She has been published in the Suffolk County Poetry Review 2023 and 2024. She is also a fine arts photographer with a passion for photographing the flowers she grows.