This morning I look in the mirror as I brush my hair. It has grown long these past three years. I twist it high on my head. It looks odd to me, this ballerina bun I haven’t worn since high school. The unframed face, the knot of hair visible only when I turn my head.
At the grocery store, I buy yogurt, granola bars, and a small pot of daffodils.
At home, I drink Irish breakfast tea and read last Sunday’s New York Times.
The moss of the daffodils is still moist. Four or five of the flowers are in full bloom. Half a dozen are still tight buds.
One flower is just opening.