Every year, I plant pots and bowls of Narcissus, and enjoy them blooming here from Thanksiving into the New Year. I love the delicate white flowers, and the scent, but, this year, I thought it would be too much, so no flowers, until Jane reads me her morning poem, and now, my life is filled with the bloom of Narcissus delicacy and scent. It was the year narcissus bloomed in all her windowsills. In summer she¹d bought bowls from the flea market. They were mismatched, odd and chipped. Some were the solid colors of paper poppies. Others were painted with hearts, flourishes of an untrained hand. She¹d put them everywhere the low light of winter shone. Outside the rain streaked sideways, gusts would rattle glass. Inside, narcissus everywhere. I never saw this. I only remember it.