They were a bunch of runts. The forgotten and discarded. I’d almost given up completely on them, not intentionally ~ neglect by omission, and is there anything worse? Even destruction in the name of anger has merited some bit of emotion. Being forgotten is a more terrible fate. It implies you never mattered in the first place.
Luckily, in this instance it wasn’t too late. They called to me in the garage, with bits of green and the smallest swords of cream emerging from the top of their papery brown bulbs. Maybe it was the emerging leaves of an early fig tree that reminded me of forgotten things. Whatever the case, I found the bag of paperwhite narcissus bulbs just in time, then planted them in some gravel, watered them well, and then they instantly grew, quicker and faster than their predecessors did back in the fall. They weren’t quite as high, but they smelled just as distinctly, their perfume a potent reminder of the past, their blooms gathered in bunches of sterling stars. It wasn’t too late after all ~ a lovely reminder for those of us lacking in patience and too ready for rash motions.
So many lessons in life come from the garden, even if the garden is a glass bowl of gravel and a forgotten bunch of papery bulbs.
