Wild irises spring up after the daffodils line the city streets, after the trillium dot the animal paths in the forest. Wild irises, tiny, delicate, purple, and white, are no match for the beasty ornamental varieties, of which three flowers can fill out a vase. But still, I prefer them wild. Wild irises hint that summer is coming. Naturally, irises have always reminded me of Dad. All my life they reminded me of the time of year that signaled our outdoor quality time together. Hiking, foraging, and when the snow melt eased up, swimming. In early May 2022, I got a call from a doctor in the intensive care unit in my hometown in California. “Come,” he said. “Quickly.” Dad had an accident and he wasn’t going to make it. Four days later, pulling up the long gravel drive to the farm after having returned from California, I glanced out the open car window to see that the wild irises had pushed up through the earth while I was gone. They’d emerged and made themselves known while I was releasing Dad’s spirit back into the wild. How could they? It felt like either some kind of cruel joke or, on the other hand, a symbol of peace and the natural order of things. It was the first of many signs and synchronicities to come. Most of them I would make note of in my journal, the messages too compelling to ignore. The irises have arrived again, right on time, to greet me.