A car pulls off the road. The couple gets out and hops the ditch. They start snapping photos of the daffodils overrunning our overgrown front yard, pausing at each yellow patch.
The young woman opens a tattered keepsake photo book.
My wife’s life-worn face lights up. Our long-gone farm materializes around us in shimmering black-and-white.
Through the thinned veil I hear: “This was my great-great-grandparents’ farm. The daffodils give it away each spring.” A page is turned. “And this was them.” Golden warmth surges through me.
“See why I done made you plant them daffodils?” my wife whispers.