I awoke this morning to see snow on the ground again. At this point, 11:30, a lot of it has melted. The world is still white, though, and much more remeniscient of Winter than a promise of Spring. I photographed the eight tulip bulbs I planted last Fall valiantly rising from the earth no matter what. They have endured more than any tulip should have to endure, but seem unterderred by it all. David gave me the bulbs before he left for Florida because he didn't have time to plant them in his own flower bed. I left them in the package, on top of the stove, for several weeks where they were subjected to extreme heat from the burners around them. They were shoved out of the way of every meal I cooked, but barely. Many times I almost threw them away, thinking I would follow my usual path of sloth. Eventually it seemed too late, too cold, and had it not been for that same slothfulness, I would have trashed them. But I didn't, and the weather stayed stayed like Fall well into December when David was about to return for Christmas. Thus inspired, and not wanting to be so irresponsible with his gift, I finally dug out a small portion of my overgrown day lily bed. I retrieved the bulbs from their nest of old crumbs and splattered grease. With renewed enthusiasm for their possible giant white blooms, I stuck them in the ground. Look at how they are rewarding my small effort. I watch their progress daily and delight in their will to survive. I pick at the surrounding dead grass to give them room. They are like foster children whom I failed to nurture until it was almost too late. It makes me so glad that I gave them the possibility of life. Now, indifferent to me, they go about their own business while I stand by and silently cheer them on.
I had the power to kill them, and, in the end, did not use it.