Like everyone else, I have been desperate for this seemingly endless, bitter cold grey winter to be over. My grieving heart has been literally aching for the snow to melt and for spring to arrive. Then the first Cancer Society Daffodils arrived at the hospital and I found myself plunged into memories of Jordan.

How could I have forgotten how intimately spring and Jordan were entwined? He was always the first one into shorts and flip flops. Pushing his Grandpa to get the greenhouse open so he could plant his tomatoes. The greenhouse was always a safe haven for Jordan, a place of peace and contentment. From the time he could first reach the potting shelf, he has spent every spring with his hands in the soil, surrounded by the love of his grandparents. 

“All through the long winter, I dream of my garden.
On the first day of spring, I dig my fingers deep into the soft earth.
I can feel its energy, and my spirits soar.”
— Helen Hayes

It was always Jordan who raked our lawn, turned the flower beds, assembled the patio furniture. Once Niko arrived in our lives, Jordan’s spring ritual included long walks along the river, searching to find and photograph the first crocuses. What courage  it takes to be a crocus. To push up through the frozen icy ground and trust that there will be enough sunshine to keep you alive. Did Jordan find strength and encouragement in nature’s persistence? When he witnessed that first crocus pushing up through the snow did he see it as a message hope?

Last weekend we washed the dust and dirt from the deck and set the furniture up. I turned and caught a glimpse of the chairs and found myself doubled over in grief, weeping at the sudden memory of Jordan lounging in the chair, enjoying the first sunshine of spring. Grief continues to be such a sneaky bastard. 

And so I fill the house with daffodils and tulips and try to see the memories that are flooding in as a gift, regardless of the pain they cause. And soon Niko and I will head out to explore the Meewasin pathways – searching for our own signs of hope.

 “There is a sacredness in tears. They are not a mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love”

(Washington Irving)