Every spring my dad would go into the woods and pick a couple branches of pussy willows to mark the coming of spring. Although his birthday occurred on March 21, we all knew it wasn’t official until he arrived with his freshly picked branches.

In February 2005 we lost him right before he turned 91. I was heartbroken and felt that spring had went with him.

It was bitter cold and I was shopping for flowers beautiful enough to express my love, while knowing the gesture could never match the loss. I happened to spot a large bunch of pussy willows being unloaded at the florist. I knew they were perfect in their simplicity; there was no finer tribute. I placed a large container next to his coffin.

I took a few branches home with me, and kept them on the mantle until I sold my condo and moved a few years later. I think of them every year at this time and wonder if anyone else remembers the tradition.

Late in the afternoon, on the first day of spring, my doorbell rang. It was my daughter and my grandson, with a huge bouquet of pussy willows that now sit on my mantle. Happy birthday Grampa.

Marcia J. Hill

Ludlow

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