in the wind, impossibly bright and fragile and brave against the cold grayness of April on Nantucket. It must be hard to be a daffodil here. They probably wish they could stayin the ground another month. But they have no say in the matter. Some biological alarm clock inside them tripped the germination switch, telling each bulb to sprout and go forth, whether it’s sunny and seventy in Georgia or still feeling like winter in April on Nantucket. They come, year after year.
She takes another spoonful and thinks about all the people partying in ’Sconset months before the weather has welcomed them to celebrate the daffodils. What’s the big deal? She finishes her chowder and drinks her latte. She continues to sit on her porch, facing the flowers and the sun, feeling the warmth on her face through the frigid air. She closes her eyes, soaking in this small pleasure.
Maybe it’s the promise of summer. After a long and bleak winter that often extends straight through spring, maybe the daffodil is a sign that summer will come again. The earth will spin and turn around the sun, and the clocks will tick even if Olivia doesn’t reset hers, and time will move along. Winter will end. This, too, shall pass. There’s the promise of a new beginning. The daffodils will bloom by the million, and life will return to the island.
And whether Olivia wants it to or not, life will return to her as well. She sits on her porch, tailgating before her daffodils, and notices that the sun has moved across the sky past her bedroom windows. It must be nearing midafternoon. Time passing.
Time heals, they say.
She reads the back cover of her library book. She’s definitely ready to read about autism again. She feels ready to face what happened, to remember it all, to try to understand Anthony’s life and why he’s no longer here, to begin healing. But if she’s feeling brave enough to face autism again, it shouldn’t be through fiction. She carries her library book back into the house and returns to the porch a minute later with something else.
Rested and full and feeling like today, Daffodil Day, might just be as good a time as any, she opens one of her journals to the first page and reads.
March 19, 2001
We had Anthony’s one-year doctor appointment today. He’s 29 inches and 21 pounds, the 50th percentile for height and weight. He had a bunch of shots—my poor baby boy. I cried right along with him! I can’t stand to watch him in any kind of pain. I was so proud to show off that he’s already walking. Dr. Harvey says we can switch him over to whole milk now. It’s going to be SO nice to not have to deal with buying formula anymore.
I can’t believe he’s already one! He’s growing up so fast. He’s always on the move now. He only lets me hold him to give him his bottle, otherwise he wants to get down and explore. He’s not my snuggly little baby anymore. He’s officially a toddler!
This must be what happens. He’s already beginning the long process of growing up, pulling away, becoming an independent little person. It’s what he’s supposed to do, but I wish it didn’t have to happen so soon.
This is why mothers have more babies. We forget about the pain and discomfort and wild inconvenience of pregnancy and childbirth so we can feel that heavenly feeling of holding a warm baby snuggled and content against our chests again. It’s like nothing else in this world. Maybe David and I should start trying. We want a big family, and I’m not getting any younger.
I told Dr. Harvey that Anthony’s not talking yet and asked if we should be concerned. He said that not all babies talk at a year and that we should start to hear some words by around fifteen months. So not long now. But Maria’s kids all talked before one. I remember Bella saying “mama” and “dada” and “moon” and signing “more” and “all done” before her first birthday.
Dr. Harvey said girls usually talk a little sooner than boys. He said not to
She takes another spoonful and thinks about all the people partying in ’Sconset months before the weather has welcomed them to celebrate the daffodils. What’s the big deal? She finishes her chowder and drinks her latte. She continues to sit on her porch, facing the flowers and the sun, feeling the warmth on her face through the frigid air. She closes her eyes, soaking in this small pleasure.
Maybe it’s the promise of summer. After a long and bleak winter that often extends straight through spring, maybe the daffodil is a sign that summer will come again. The earth will spin and turn around the sun, and the clocks will tick even if Olivia doesn’t reset hers, and time will move along. Winter will end. This, too, shall pass. There’s the promise of a new beginning. The daffodils will bloom by the million, and life will return to the island.
And whether Olivia wants it to or not, life will return to her as well. She sits on her porch, tailgating before her daffodils, and notices that the sun has moved across the sky past her bedroom windows. It must be nearing midafternoon. Time passing.
Time heals, they say.
She reads the back cover of her library book. She’s definitely ready to read about autism again. She feels ready to face what happened, to remember it all, to try to understand Anthony’s life and why he’s no longer here, to begin healing. But if she’s feeling brave enough to face autism again, it shouldn’t be through fiction. She carries her library book back into the house and returns to the porch a minute later with something else.
Rested and full and feeling like today, Daffodil Day, might just be as good a time as any, she opens one of her journals to the first page and reads.
March 19, 2001
We had Anthony’s one-year doctor appointment today. He’s 29 inches and 21 pounds, the 50th percentile for height and weight. He had a bunch of shots—my poor baby boy. I cried right along with him! I can’t stand to watch him in any kind of pain. I was so proud to show off that he’s already walking. Dr. Harvey says we can switch him over to whole milk now. It’s going to be SO nice to not have to deal with buying formula anymore.
I can’t believe he’s already one! He’s growing up so fast. He’s always on the move now. He only lets me hold him to give him his bottle, otherwise he wants to get down and explore. He’s not my snuggly little baby anymore. He’s officially a toddler!
This must be what happens. He’s already beginning the long process of growing up, pulling away, becoming an independent little person. It’s what he’s supposed to do, but I wish it didn’t have to happen so soon.
This is why mothers have more babies. We forget about the pain and discomfort and wild inconvenience of pregnancy and childbirth so we can feel that heavenly feeling of holding a warm baby snuggled and content against our chests again. It’s like nothing else in this world. Maybe David and I should start trying. We want a big family, and I’m not getting any younger.
I told Dr. Harvey that Anthony’s not talking yet and asked if we should be concerned. He said that not all babies talk at a year and that we should start to hear some words by around fifteen months. So not long now. But Maria’s kids all talked before one. I remember Bella saying “mama” and “dada” and “moon” and signing “more” and “all done” before her first birthday.
Dr. Harvey said girls usually talk a little sooner than boys. He said not to
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