Daffodils

Born in June, I have always been a summer baby. Summer is my favorite season, and I love the sun. I love being outdoors, especially when it’s warm. Because I have a weak immune system, winters tend to be hard for me. I spend a lot of time sick and a lot of time waiting for the sun to return and the earth to burst into life again.

This past winter with Lizzy was no different. For a few days in February, and more and more days throughout March, Lizzy and I would go outside to play, watching with careful and focused attention for the flower buds to arrive, the trees and grass to become more green, the bees to start their work, and the animals to come out to play. Lizzy, her usual vibrant self, was able to find delight in even the barren promise of early spring, and she spent her time pushing around her stroller, examining objects she discovered, and digging in the ever-fascinating dirt.

Last summer, Lizzy was able to do and appreciate so much more than she had the summer before, and I anticipated this summer with great delight, thinking of how much mental, social, and verbal development had occurred in her in even the three months prior to her birthday. I could not wait to show her the flowers the would emerge and the animals that would return with the sun.

The daffodils were the first to arrive, given how early in the spring it still was in March. They popped their bright heads out of the earth, and Lizzy, delighted, set about gathering them. They were countless and seemingly innumerable, coming up in unexpected places. Lizzy had recently learned the word “flower” (she pronounced the two syllables very deliberately: “flao-were”), and moreover had learned to lean down and try to smell the flowers. Anytime we passed an emerging bulb with any visible flower, Lizzy would squat down and stick her pert and perfect nose in the bulb. I would try to explain to her that not all bulbs smell very much. It didn’t matter. She loved her flowers. She loved smelling the nonexistent smells. She loved collecting her daffodils and placing them deliberately across the canopy of her pink, plastic play stroller.

On the property, there was a massive and venerable cherry tree that each spring, became laden to drooping with the weight of its blossoms. I waited with impatience for this tree to bloom, anticipating being able to show the flowers to Lizzy when they arrived. During our walks around the yard, I would always stop at this tree to examine the branches and see how close the buds were to blooming.

But nothing ended up blooming before Lizzy died, except for the daffodils. I took her into the hospital on a Tuesday, and by the time I arrived home that Saturday, all of the trees in the yard, including the cherry tree, had come into lush and overwhelming bloom.

As people drove me to mass, to Lizzy’s funeral, to Lizzy’s burial, I stared in a grey and resentful haze at the cherry blooms that were now ubiquitous, at the endless white, purple, and pink flowering trees that seemed to be on every block. People kept telling me that Lizzy was working with God to give me sunny, beautiful days, but the sun no longer held its previous joy for me. All I could think and feel was that I had been waiting so long to share these flowers with Lizzy, and now I would never get to.

Lizzy delighted in all animals and for a two-year old, was remarkably and sometimes astoundingly gentle with all creatures that she came across. Our trips to zoos, aquariums, and wildlife sanctuaries were some of her favorite days because she always got to pet, hug, or kiss an animal.

Now, I saw a cardinal flitting from blooming tree to blooming tree. A huge toad hopping into the drainage pipe. A fox scampering for cover in the distance. An earthworm making its way across the flagstone path. Little lizards with bright blue tails disappearing into the laurel. A monarch butterfly perched on the honeysuckle.

And every animal that I saw stirred a rage and resentment in me that threatened to boil over. Why? Why now? Why when she was dead?

Even the pine tree over the driveway tormented me. It dropped hundreds of miniature pinecones, and all I could see was Lizzy making a game of it, picking up all of the tiny, Lizzy-sized pinecones and collecting them in her stroller.

Today, some of the rage has dissipated, although I will never understand why the earth chose to come to life in the week that my baby was dying. I am not angry enough at nature to not want to share it with Cecilia, but I am still angry.

Lizzy was born on March 20, 2017, which was the first official day of spring. Because of this, the first middle name we gave her was Aviva, which is Hebrew for spring. Lizzy was baptized five weeks later, near Mother’s day. And then she died in early April of 2019. But it is not only for these reasons that Lizzy was a springtime baby. She was herself so full of light and life, and the way that she lived and manifested that light was brimming with an unstoppable life force, a life that held so much promise of the beauty yet to come.

In his homily at Lizzy’s funeral, our priest spoke about how Lizzy, sinless, baptized, and innocent, is in heaven and is therefore a saint, canonized by the Church or not. He said that to him, she will always be St. Elizabeth of the Springtime.

This is undoubtedly a more beautiful perspective. Lizzy, in surrendering her life, brought the earth around her back to life. The saint of springtime, she poured her radiant life forth, trying to leave us with as much beauty as possible.

But, to be honest, I’m not sure that I’m capable of feeling these things yet. I still see flowers and animals and just feel angry. I still just want my toddler here so that I can show her these things. I still see her as my baby, and I still want to give these things to her.

Someday, perhaps, I will come to accept that maybe Lizzy is now the one showing the world to me.