When Mom found out she was sick last year, she spent a week working in her flower beds. She knew that the summer would end and winter might be here before she was able to be out there doing what she loved. One of her chores that week was to divide the daffodils. When I first saw them, there were hundreds of bulbs drying on her deck. She sent me home with a grocery bag full of small, shriveled, brown bulbs.
Mom is a master gardener and I am not. I did know that it is best for the bulbs to be really cold for part of the year, but instead of reading exactly what is best here in Alabama, I sat the grocery bag in the carport. And left them alone. I was happy and appreciative for the gift, but my inexperience led to procrastination.
A while back, though, Daryl and I planted those bulbs. We grouped them together in several little circles in my garden like Mom suggested and we waited to see if there was any life left in them. Before long I started to see the greenery pushing up through the dirt. I was thrilled! I had no thoughts that they would bloom this year, but at least they were alive.
Then one day I saw a flower. It seemed like a minor miracle! I was so thankful that my mother's gift had not died.