I’ve learned anyone can give flowers. It only takes a credit card and a florist, no skill, time or forethought.
My father taught me that real love comes in clovers.
Growing up, my family found the four-leaved tokens pressed between birthday cards, love notes and phone books.
As children under our father’s orders, we’d scour the grass, searching them out for our mother. She viewed them as more precious than a rose, and she’d leave the four-leaved beauties floating delicately in a water glass—simple in shape, full of meaning.
To most people, the four-leaf clover signifies luck and good fortune, but to my family, it symbolizes never-ending love.
I can’t walk by a patch without kneeling for a quick peek or slowing down for a skim. And each time I pause for a clover hunt, I think of my father.
Three years ago his death brought the end of many things: a long, happy marriage; dreams of that father-daughter dance and visions of him playing with his first grandchild.
But it didn’t bring the end of four-leaved clovers.
They are all around me.
A few weeks after his death, when the weather had finally turned, I sat on my front porch enjoying the spring sun. When I noticed a newly sprouted patch of clovers, I went to take a closer look. I quickly found one four-leafer, and then another. I found a third and a fourth.
With each one picked, I could feel my father closing in around me, sending me his clovers from heaven.