Cycling up the seemingly endless hill, it was a glimpse of colour that captured my attention. Flashes of purples and whites drew me in, slowing me down, as I tried not to lose my balance. There, on the edge of the footpath, poking through the mud of winter, were flower petals.

Growing up, the sight of purple crocuses nudging their way through the snow was a vivid reminder that winter would end. I don’t recall snowdrops in the Yukon, but they have become my British sign of spring. Together, they are a reliable sign that spring is coming. I continued my slow and not overly steady cycle up the hill, out of breath and deep in thought.

For a second year running, these flowers are no longer merely a glimpse ahead into sunshine and warmth. On top of this, they bring life to my memories of Neve, in her final months. Neve is conjured into the present and, simultaneously, I step back in time, to join her. We are together in my thoughts.

By the early months of 2023, Neve’s view of the outside world was small; it mostly consisted of what she could see from her bedroom window. The monotony of our back garden was occasionally replaced by an ambulance ride. The destination was always the same, as was the music. To our hospice we would go, listening to the Frozen soundtrack, care of the ambulance service. These journeys took place when things became exceptionally challenging and more help was needed.

The hospice gardens were beautifully maintained by volunteers. Neve spent many happy hours there, among the flowers, the toys and the plastic tractors. Whether on foot, in a wheelchair or finally, in a soft and supportive reclining chair, this space held and nurtured her.

But mostly, flowers and the outside world were a distant memory. As a consequence, we used to break our no picking flowers rule, to bring Neve blossoms. An insignificant gift perhaps, for those who can visit the park themselves. Yet these spring colours were a striking offering for a child stuck at home, dying.

She particularly adored the daffodils, which grew frenziedly on the banks of a busy road nearby.

As I cycle by now, beyond the purple and white, I see an abundance of green shoots, heralding the imminent arrival of the daffodils. But no yellow flowers yet. A moment of relief. No daffodils yet somehow means Neve is still alive. She lived long enough into the spring to see the daffodils. Even though I know what is coming, we are safe, at least for a little bit longer.

Then I remember. Neve is dead. Even though she died after the daffodils came out and they are not yet in bloom today. It’s nearly two years later, but a part of me is certain that she won’t die until the end of April.

I vividly recall her smile, as she gently placed the yellow flowers in a little vase of water.

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