When I see daffodils peak through the dirt, it’s like Corrie’s spirit says, “Mommy, look at me.”
When I write, I hope readers take away the hope, love of friends and family, and memory of the full journey through grief.
Sometimes people will read, and perhaps miss the message. Perhaps they will gain something from it. That is always the hope, as I’ve always written truthfully, thoughtfully, and from the heart.
A journey is a full, thee dimensional figure, not defined by one or two people or situations.
The journey on Season of Corrie has always been about Corrie, life with Corrie in spirit and our family. The dark times that tested us–whether death, illness or people–the message is how to walk again, forgive, and learn to believe again.
Today is the kind when I can’t help but think of Corrie. She sneaks into the moment just like when she’d say, “Mommy, watch me … You’re not watching.”
At school, I want to turn away, and not think about Corrie because she’s gone. But Corrie is the kind to giggle and grab your attention with the sparkle with far more diamonds than you could ever mine.
As we move towards the third year angel anniversary in May, I look at how much I’ve written just about Corrie, her brother, Hayes, and their father.
You could say, just in two-and-a-half years, I’ve created an opus about all of them here, in my poems and Corrie’s memoir.
In looking through Season of Corrie, I’ve written about daffodils during this same time, February. Here marks the third year in a row with pictures of daffodils, and me writing about them. Instead of roses for Valentine’s Day, I’ll take the daffodils because they remind me of shining light on Earth and my star in heaven.
When I see the daffodils, I spot her run behind the trees. She hides away, forever five, and says, "You can't find me." Hayes, her brother, in a younger time, says, "Corrie, I'm tired of playing now." I try to move my mind away because such things are gone, but I see the daffodils, and hear a fake squeal. She looks from behind a tree for him as golden waves of brown fall upon her shoulders and wisps on her forehead. See her in the white, purple and turquoise shirt and a mismatched purple skirt. I try and look somewhere else, but the daffodils are in bloom. They call me as if to say, "Look at us. She's right here. Don't say you're looking because we know you're really not. She'd have you look at us to know she's really here. If you look at us, you'll hear her laugh over again."
With that, I share this short poem I wrote in February 2021 about daffodils, and one of my all-time favorites, As Legends Make of Kings.
All photos, words and poem by R.A. Bridges. Copyrighted 2021, 2023 R.T. Bridges
Corrie's Season 