They were crocuses, scatteredwhimsically(古怪地)throughout the front lawn. Lavender, blue, yellow and my favorite pink-little faces bobbing in the bitter wind.
Dad. I smiled, remembering the bulbs he had secretly planted last autumn. He knew how the darkness and dreariness of winter always got me down. What could have been more perfectly timed, more attuned to my needs? How blessed I was, not only for the flowers but for him.
My father' s crocuses bloomed each spring for the next four or five seasons, bringing that same assurance every time they arrived: Hard times 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, but my life was busier than ever, and I had never been much of a gardener. I would ask Dad to come over and plant new bulbs. But I never did.
He died suddenly one October day. My family grieved deeply, leaning on our faith. I missed him terribly, though I knew he would always be a part of us.
Four years passed, and on a dismal spring afternoon I wasrunning errands(跑腿,供差遣)and found myself feeling depressed. You've got the winter blahs again, I told myself. You get them every year.
It was Dad ' s birthday, and I found myself thinking about him. This was not unusual--my family often talked about him, remembering how he lived his faith. Once I saw him give his coat to a homeless man. Often he ' d chat with strangers, and if he learned they were poor and hungry, he would invite them home for a meal. But now, in the car, I could not help wondering: How is he now? Where is he? Is there really a heaven?
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