It was her mother’s birthday but she had no gift to give her. A bright April with blossoming flowers and shiny green grass stood in steep contrast to the daughter’s pitiful tears. Eighteen birthdays she had spent with her mother, seventeen times she had offered up gifts that had never felt good enough. The 18th time she had nothing at all to give. The handmade card the daughter had made lay discarded at the bottom of the waste basket. Words just seemed so empty. Her poem could not exactly detail her mother’s loving disposition and subtle strength. No narrative could describe the depths of the mother’s compassion. The daughter walked around in the April air, hoping for some spring inspiration. She eyed the great trees and the running stream, towering sunflowers and dancing daffodils but it was the small patch of bluets that called her over to them. These flowers, with their pale blue petals and shining yellow centers seemed to echo the character of her mother much more than any of the other flowers did: reserved with quiet beauty, down to earth with a heart of gold. Lovingly she picked each tiny bluet, choosing only the brightest for her handpicked bouquet. This handful of flowers somehow felt like just enough. The flowers spoke to the love she had for her mother more than her words ever could.