Every Spring, when I was growing up, my mom would Shanghai me to help her plant the little flowerbeds around our yard.

I always hated digging up the roots of the previous year and inserting fresh Impatiens or Marigolds into dirt holes. I was a kid, I had crayfish to catch at the creek. I had football to play with neighbors. Planting flowers was quite possibly the last thing ever on my "to-do" list.

Up into my teens, I continued the ritual of helping my mother with planting and each Spring took less and less convincing to get me to help.

It's been about ten years since I last helped my mother plant flowers, and I've never missed it. I've rarely even thought about it.

Yesterday, I walked into my backyard looking for kindling to make a bonfire. What I found on the edges of the small fenced-in yard were wild Daffodils, Bluebells, and Hyacinths.

At that moment, I felt a smile spread across my face like warm peanut butter. All the different kinds of flowers I had planted for my mom all came to mind, and it made me happy. I told my fiance that when we finally get a house, I'd likely plant some flowers in the yard, simply because I like them. For the rest of the evening, I thought about just how much our parents/past shapes our future.