He looked up, smiling. “I’m making you a surprise.” Knowing my father, I thought it could be just about anything. A self-employed jobber, he was always building things out of odds and ends. When we were kids, he always created something surprising for us.
Today, however, Dad would say no more, and caught ups in the busyness of our new life, I eventually forgot about his surprise.
Until one gloomy day the following March when I glanced out of the window. Any yet… I saw a dot of blue across the yard. I headed outside for a closer look. They were crocuses (番红花), throughout the front lawn. Lavender, blue, yellow and my favorite pink --- little faces moved up and down in the cold wind.
Dad! I smiled, remembering the things he had secretly planted last autumn. He knew how the darkness and dullness of winter always got me down. What could have been more perfectly timely to my needs?
My father’s crocuses bloomed each spring for the next four or five seasons, bringing the same assurance every time they arrived: hard times was almost over. Hold on, keep going, light is coming soon.
Then a spring came with only half the usual blooms. The next spring there were none. I missed the crocuses. I would ask Dad to come over and plant new bulbs. But I never did.
He died suddenly one October day. My family was in deep sorrow, leaning on our faith. I missed him terribly.
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