Happy birthday, Kid

We'd had a hard freeze a few weeks before, and the gardens at Springfield Botanical were still mostly just waking up. Bare beds, cautious buds, the whole place taking its time. It was my 57th birthday, and I came anyway, because I'll take a quiet April garden over no garden at all.

And then I saw her.

A wild columbine, deep red and magenta with that buttery yellow skirt hanging from her stem like a small lantern - lit for a little warmth, not for light. Two unopened buds tucked alongside her, like she'd brought company. And behind her, the part I keep coming back to: a softer, blurred bloom in the bokeh that looks almost like her own reflection. As if the garden were offering me the same small kindness twice.

But what really got me was the tilt.

You know how farmers wave when they pass each other on a country road? Not the whole hand. Just the tip of the chin, or a finger lifted off the steering wheel. Subtle. Easy. Polite. A small acknowledgment that says I see you, friend.

That's exactly what she was doing. A quiet little nod from a flower who'd shown up early to my birthday and tipped her bonnet at me as I walked past.

My dad isn't here anymore, not in the way he used to be. And standing there on that perfect April day, in that half-empty garden, I couldn't help but feel like maybe this was him. His farmer’s wave from somewhere a little farther on. Happy birthday, kid. I see you.

I believe in those moments. I always will.