Every early Spring in rural north Alabama (and many other places), the daffodils bloom that were planted by long-gone homesteaders, vibrant splotches of yellow dotting the late winter landscape.
People once lived and worked, likely farmed, at these locations. Probably a husband, wife, some children. Especially in many-decades-ago rural Alabama it’s pretty much a given that those homesteaders worked long and hard to eke out a living.
Children grow up, move on. As one ages, working the farm gets harder and harder, until eventually the residents have no choice but to move on. Or a life of hard work simply overwhelms them, and they leave by other means.
But the daffodils remain. Persistent, showing up again year after year, refusing to get choked out by weeds and brush. A brilliant yellow memorial that this place was once a home.