When Molly died, a friend came to the house and planted literally 100s of bulbs as a memorial to her, and every year, he gives us more bulbs to add to the collection. This year we added purple hyacinth.
Planting the bulbs is a bittersweet task: kneeling on the ground, burying the bulbs, hoping a miraculous transformation will take place in just a few months. It’s also usually brutally cold this time of year, but the earth is spongy today in a springy sort of way that contradicts the fact that it is December in a part of the world that really should be frozen.
So, this morning, I planted bulbs. And I immersed myself in memories of Molly and Mom and looked forward to the flowers that will bloom in the spring. If the holidays celebrate hope and miracles and the idea that somehow God is always with us, then planting something – anything – expresses a holiday truth with candor seldom found in the carols, the cookies or the gift wrapped boxes.
ah! what a glorious gift to you and the memory of your daughter - your friend is truly remarkable.
ReplyDeleteYour description of planting the new bulbs is beautiful - it captures how I feel when I tend the plants at my daughter's grave. A sense of penance, but also an act of creation, adding the promise of beauty to a dark gray world.