My oldest daughter will be ten in a few months. She is smart, pretty, fun, and always brings me flowers back from her outings to the park with her grandpa.
There is something so very innocent and special about the homemade gifts of children. Whether it is an abstract drawing a child worked on all afternoon, a tiny bouquet of wilted flower petals and/or weeds, that are deposited into your best vase from dirty little hands, or something else, these gifts are tokens that a child has thought of you. And a sign that that child has thought enough of you to spend their time coloring or gathering flowers to bring back; childish gifts from their hearts.
Perhaps they are so dear to me, because I know that soon these little gifts will end. Just like glorious summer break will end so autumn can come, soon my little babies will be teenagers and then adults. They will probably buy me “nice” gifts with money from their jobs, and I will be grateful. Who knows if they will remember, or what they will think about their childish homemade gifts?
But as for me, I would much rather have the wilted flowers.