My mother and I shared a love of the lowly daisy. My father did not. She put bouquets of them by my bed when I came to visit in season. He mowed them down under the apple trees. My sister and I are always sure to include daisies in the wild bouquets we put on his grave every Memorial Day.
Last year I remembered to ask the man who mows for me to cut the knee-high wild grass under the trees before the daisies came up; this year I forgot to watch for perfect timing and then it was too late. So I got out my handy cordless weedeater and made a wander trail among the buds and early blooms. Not exactly a labyrinth, but . . . It reminded me of how we girls would beg Daddy to cut a “wonderland trail” (did we mean “wanderland” trail?) in the lawn when he mowed and we would follow its twists and turns, running, laughing. I know he groaned when we asked, it meant mowing the whole yard again later; but he did it anyway, because he loved us.