Back in January Little A's baby sitter offered me a mesh bag full of daffodil bulbs. "I won't be around this weekend to plant them," she explained, adding that she'd accidentally left the bulbs outside in a rainstorm and they were wet. Once wet, they would need to go in the ground almost immediately to have a good chance at sprouting in the spring.
I brought the bag home and put it down next to the orange tree, intending to plant them early the next morning. But it rained more, Little A went back in the hospital, and life turned into one big to-do list that kept increasing in size but never saw any items crossed off of it. I did not plant the daffodil bulbs. I did not even move the bag. But every time I set foot outside for the last six weeks, I saw it and felt regretful.
Then the doctor called with good news -- sweat test normal, no cystic fibrosis for Little A. I felt so relieved, so grateful. The ice jam of terror that left me suspended for so long broke apart. I could cry, I could think, I could live again. The next time I saw the bag in the backyard I resolved to throw it out.
When I picked the bag up, I saw the green fingers of stem pushing out from the gnarled fists of each bulb. Despite laying in the wet grass with no nourishment outside of the occasional rainstorm for so long, they had not rotted or frozen or withered. Every single one grew.
Thinking about toughness and luck, I planted them after all.