When I was a little girl living on top of the hill above the hospital, near the “tippy-top,” surrounded by fields and forests, I loved planting a half-acre garden with my mom every summer. It was delightful. I loved the flowers especially. We had ancient dahlia bulbs that stretched the length of the garden and bloomed with a dark red richness and a deeply satisfying scent. I was so sad that the flowers didn’t grow in the winter, so my mother and I built a little greenhouse on the side of the garage.
I loved that greenhouse. It was so much fun to tramp through the snow to go to the “flower sauna,” and the doorway of the glass house was littered with mittens and scarves and jackets discarded quickly in the artificial heat. Memories were made in that cheerful space, and one of those memories is the one I’ll share with you now.
Even in my early youth, I loved flowers. I loved experimenting with bulbs and seeds and bushes. One year, I was trying so hard to get a poinsettia to bloom in time for Christmas. It would be my Christmas surprise for my mom. Finally, one morning in early December, I was rewarded with a bud on the green stem.
As I sat there in wonder on my garden stool, the bud began to stir and open. My eyes grew large, and my breath caught in my throat as its bright red petals unfurled under the heat lamp’s warm glow. I closed my eyes in a silent prayer of thanks, but my lids flew open when I heard a jolly laugh. “Well! It’s about time! I was hoping I’d get to meet you!”
The poinsettia was talking. I was dumbfounded, but perhaps my youth helped me to accept what would seem ridiculous today. I started an easy friendship with the flower, running to greet it in the mornings and after the bus dropped me off from school.
I told that flower everything, and it eagerly shared in my joys and sorrows. We sang songs together and danced. It was lovely. That first Christmas with my special flower was magical in every way. Every new experience was sprinkled with fairy dust because I could share it with the flower.
Imagine my deep sadness when, after the Christmas decorations were stored away and the deep chill of January began to sink further into the ground, my flower began to wilt and dry out. I tried every trick I knew to keep the flower in bloom, but it was no use. In my last conversation with the flower, it told me not to be sad about its dying. Like all the best flowers, they always bloom again.
And it did. One year later, I watched in awe as the little green bud darkened and swelled in front of me. As the red petals started its dance to fullness, a single tear of happiness slid down my face as I heard the familiar voice sing out.
“Well! It’s about time! Merry Christmas!”