Rows of jonquils growing on a country hillside bravely carry the dreams of people who once lived there. Their joyful yellow faces planted row on row still give pleasure nodding in the breeze.     

A legacy of laughter and tears soaked into this soil—all that’s left of generations who loved, laughed, wept, and one day had to leave the land—their hearts lingering in the brown earth beside the daffodils.

My sisters and I caught fireflies in the dusk on this very hill. We looked for the first star to appear, waved goodnight to the thin slice of moon just appearing over the moon trees. We listened to our Daddy’s stories of boyhood adventures out West. Felt our Mother’s reluctance to break the evening’s enchanted spell by going inside, turning on lights, making ready for bed.

Raising their faces each year to the sun’s warmth—the jonquils write my memoir.