Five pots were parsed out between us. Each contained two to three bulbs trimmed to the quick. Clumps of dead leaves and cobwebs marked the months since they’d seen sun. Would they miss their other terracotta compatriots? Scientists have proven plants can communicate with each other. Maybe they sensed my roots to their previous owner. It was the last thing I carried out from her home on the hill.
Can plants speak to spirits?
I love that plants are choosy. “Get behind what I need or I ain’t giving you nothing.” What a cause! Thrive or die. I got them home and immediately cleaned out the debris, saturating liberally at first. Awaken, don’t drown. Within a week, two leaves broke through the papery sheath of hibernation. My water regimen and coffee table light brought forth the “thrive”. I added in occasional morning caresses and a few words of encouragement before the 8am sunshine flowed in. Two of the three eager bulbs sprouted up within a few days, while the runt bided its time. Now she stands tall with a perfect bud developing its vibrancy. In just a few weeks, on St. Patrick’s Day, Patricia would have turned 97. Instead of green, she’ll be wearing red.
A Homegoing 
Your writing is just beautiful, Darling. I read everything you write so eagerly as it leaps off the page in three-dimensional, technicolor, slice-of-life Americana. Your writing is a kind of meditation on the transcendence of ordinary things. You find the wonder, like you did at age three, bending down to caress the grass. Like then, I shake my head in wonder at your wisdom.
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Thank you, Padre! I appreciate both loving comments. I’m so lucky to have your support <3.
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