The house was always full of flowers. Every room had at least one vase, some two, containing everything from a blaze of colour to a simple splash of yellow and green. The latter were her favourites, daffodils, their unique perfume and intense colour belying their humble presence. Adorning every verge and roundabout this elegant, proud flower was never jealous of its exotic cousins.

They were the only flowers he liked, mirroring his taste in everything. Unpretentious but easy on the eye, never boring despite its proliferation at this time of year. A single flower was a thing of beauty while in their thousands they transformed the landscape, an army of yellow, marching in step but going nowhere. Some days he would arrive home and see a bunch of tightly closed daffodils standing erect in the bay window. Each head an arrow of gold ready to pierce the heart with a splash of beauty when open.

Then she was gone and so were the flowers, leaving a collection of empty, meaningless vessels throughout the house. Each one only given function by what filled it… empty meant meaningless, useless, hopeless like his life. Eventually, as with almost everything else, the vases went the journey. Some to the children, others to charity shops, all except one. The one he bought one Christmas, which he filled, at great expense, with the biggest, boldest bunch of blooms he could find. They added an explosion of colour to the festivities for a day or two. Then the magic that had kept them alive, temporarily, artificially, since their journey from the fields of Namibia, faded in the December chill.

Three weeks later, to the day, her birthday arrived and the vase was filled with the first daffodils of the year. Like their predecessors, these tiny yellow African spears, half the size of their English cousins, huddled together, refusing to open; unlike the latter who were still deep in the frozen English soil. The wonders of globalisation, where nothing was seasonal any more, berries of every variety were a year round given instead of a summer treat.

Now the vessel stood empty and after successive hose moves, stood in the back of the cupboard with the George Foreman grill and a thousand bags for life. Ironically, she asked for no flowers at her funeral, a request that was ignored. How could we say goodbye without her favourite blooms to put words into our mute mouths? For two years the redundant piece of ceramic stood, gathering dust and the odd unfortunate spider, who inadvertently fell into its gaping mouth.

One day, in late March, he was passing the greengrocers in the mall. There, neatly arranged in boxes and tied into bunches with tiny elastic bands, were his memories. Unfortunately they were too faint to mean anything. He had emptied his brain, his way of coping. However, he was reminded again while walking home, this time by a myriad of golden heads nodding in the March breeze. A spark lit and he lifted his phone to capture the lemony army. He would keep that image, for what, he didn’t know.

The next day, nevertheless, his actions were validated by another image that appeared on his screen. This time on messenger from thousands of miles away. The image was of a solitary daffodil standing proud on a terrace garden in Amman.

“Look”, said the accompanying message. “It smells amazing!”

“Daffodil” , he replied.

“What?”

“The flower, it’s a daffodil”.

“Oh, I didn’t know that”.

“Here”, and with that he sent her the picture from the previous day.

“Woow! Where is that? They are incredible” came the reply, accompanied by an array of emojis.

“Outside of my flat”, he typed matter of factly. Suddenly, something clicked in his brain. Jumping up he strode to the cupboard and opened the door. There, behind the Morrison’s bags was the white ceramic vase. He carefully removed it from the shelf and sat down, propping his phone up on the coffee table. Setting it to video, he began recording. Why, he didn’t have a clue. After a few seconds, he attached it to a message and sent it back to Jordan. The message read,

“Look what I found! I’ll fill it with daffodils tomorrow”

Her reaction was, as usual, spectacular. The screen was filled with superlatives, accompanied by yet more crazy emojis.

The following day, he made his way to the mall. Arriving at Tom Owen greengrocers, he gathered up several bunches of the yellow delights. In doing so, he couldn’t help but put them to his face, inhaling deeply. The previous thirty-five years flooded back like a burst dam. On returning home, he poured water into the vase and carefully cut the tiny elastic bands holding the bunches together. Arranging the buds in the vase, he placed it on the table and took a photograph. The reply to his picture was as simple as telhe blooms. A row of six identical crying emojis. She got it, just like she always did.

From that day, his humble flat came to life thanks to a precious flower from the Middle East… and a single daffodil…