A handful of daffodils popped out in our front yard today to join the world, in that miraculous herald of spring that is also, for me, a reminder of death.

Maybe not death exactly. Daffodils remind me of my mother. I am not entirely certain why. For a long time I told myself that it was because it was her favorite flower, but I don’t think I ever knew that for certain. More likely their emergence closely coincided with her birthday in late April (spring comes later in New England). Also, her kitchen had these bright yellow curtains that filtered the light in such a way.

Regardless, I think of her when they grace us with their joyful faces every spring. They mirror the joy it brings to think of her. And that’s a new thing.

For the better part of two decades, thinking of my mom was defined by her absence. She died when I was sixteen, and every moment I thought of her, I missed her. “She missed it,” I’d think. My graduation, my wedding, Mother’s Day (again), this-random-thing-I-should-probably-call-to-tell-her. She missed all of it. She’s just gone.

I was grateful for her life, of course. I remembered laughing together, dancing in the kitchen, listening to Bob Marley, leaning against her shoulder in Quaker meeting. But those memories came with an ache.

But now, over twenty-two years later, it has changed. I miss her still (duh), but the reminders feel refreshing. I share stories of her with my children and we laugh. I see daffodils and I am so grateful to them for the reminder of our yellow kitchen, my mother’s birthday in an early, desperately-awaited, New England spring. I push back against her values and ideals.

Relationships change throughout our lives, even when the person on the other end of that relationship is not alive. That surprised me. I’m grateful for the surprise. That our relationship continues to change, means that the relationship has not died. Even if she has.

So daffodils remind me of death. In the best way. In the miraculous way that those daffodils surprise me every year with their persistence of life. My mom keeps coming back. Yellow trumpet surrounded by those sunny tendrils. I see her. And I smile.