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I was nine when my father first sent me flowers. I had been taking tap-dancing lessons for six months, and the school was holding its yearly ______. As a member of the beginners’ chorus line, I was ______ of my lowly status. So it was a ______ to have my name called out at the end of the show along with the lead ______ and to find my arms full of red roses. I can still feel myself standing on that ______, blushing and gazing out at the audience, seeing my father’s grin as he applauded ______.

As the years passed, other ______ ―birthdays, awards, graduations—were ______ with Dad’s flowers. Dad’s flowers ______ his pride, and my success. When I ______ from college, I was embarking on a new career and was engaged to be married.

As my fortunes grew, my father gradually became ______, but his gifts of flowers continued ______ he died of a heart attack a few months before his 70th birthday. I covered his coffin ______ the largest, reddest roses I could find.

Often in the dozen years since, I have felt a(n) ______ to go out and buy a big bunch to fill the living room, ______ I never did. I knew it would not be the same.

Then one birthday, the doorbell rang. I was feeling ______ because I was alone. My son, Matt, had run out earlier with a “see you later”, never mentioning my ______. So I was surprised to see his large frame at the door. “Forgot my key,” he said, shrugging. “Forgot your birthday too. Well, I hope you like ______, Mom.” He pulled a bunch of daisies from ______ his back. “Oh, Matt,” I ______, hugging him hard, “I love flowers!”