I’m pretty sure my dad never imagined that one day he would come back as a flower.  A circus clown, maybe, or an old shoe with paint splatters, or a naughty puppy with blue eyes.  But never a flower, and especially not a pink one, of all colors.

Four years ago today I looked into Dad’s blue eyes for the last time, trying to memorize every last detail of his face before it was lost to me forever except in pictures and video.

Two years ago today, a strange flower bloomed in my garden.  A pink lily that had never been there before and resembled nothing in my yard.  Unique and independent and colorful.  I’d already seen signs of Dad in rainbows and airplane streaks across the sky forming the shape of a cross and blue butterflies fluttering around with a sense of humor about them.  Now I let myself believe for one ridiculous moment that this was my dad, appearing in the form of a pink flower to remind me that, no matter the growing distance between his presence and my life each passing July 22, he was still there, bright and colorful as always.

He would have gotten a kick out of that.  Oh, that dreamy child of his.

Except last year on July 22, the pink flower bloomed again.  Odd coincidence, I supposed, but I enjoyed sharing the story and imagining that just maybe Dad was playing one of his jokes again.  A pink flower.  How ridiculous was this idea.

This July 22, my mind was on everything but pink flowers.  I drove into my yard hot and frazzled, thinking about the contract I needed to email to my clients the minute I got into the house and the pie I needed to whip up for the cook-out later.

As I got out of my truck, I spotted it.

The flower.  Out of nowhere.  Bright and pink and colorful and independent.  I am here!  Smile for a minute, forget about your troubles and remember, I am here.

Hmmmm.

A pink flower?  Who am I to say what’s possible?