They hover yellowly in my vase, cheerily announcing in a clamourous almost-chorus that spring has arrived. I sneeze; so has hayfever. I love them for the first few weeks.
But then the turn of August into September ushers in the plastic stems. Garish fabric pinned to my chest; a reminder of the cellular mutation of the disease. The fresh turned into the distorted.
This is not to say I hate Daffodil Day; on the contrary, the Cancer Society does amazing work and I support them proudly (elsewise; why affix this badge of fake spring?) It just is what it is, a melancholy reminder of the transience of life in the face of the turning, new season.
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