The Daffodil Hillside

There's an old arboretum near my apartment that most people drive right past: huge oak trees, winding paths, benches, squirrels everywhere. A gardener named Luis has tended it for twenty-seven years, and every fall he plants daffodil bulbs by the hundreds.

In April the whole hillside turns yellow. People come from across the city to walk there and picnic by the fence. Luis tells visitors about the trees, which ones are oldest, which one the owls nest in, which bench gets the best morning sun.

I walk there on Sunday mornings. Luis always waves, leaning on his rake, and tells me what's blooming this week, like a weather report for flowers. Last spring he handed me a paper bag of extra bulbs for my balcony.

He says he plants flowers "so everyone who walks by feels invited." It's the most peaceful, cheerful place I know, and three of his daffodils are blooming outside my window right now.