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Show 206 The Planting It is drizzling. I am sitting flat on top of the damp soil, my anemic legs like heavy sticks flung out in the dirt in front of me. I am scooting, as needed, to change location. My friend Virginia is there as well but she is positioned in a much more coordinated squat, sitting back on her heels, thrusting her spade into the soil in front of her with firm and rhythmic strokes, hallowing large nests for the daffodil bulbs. I have been home for two days. Virginia had brought me the bulbs late last summer, tossing them rattling in a brown paper bag onto my hospital bed with a laugh and a promise that we would plant them together in the fall so that by early spring, the garden bed in front of my bay window would be yellow and lovely, a small welcome respite from our harsh winters. It is November now and we have only beaten the frozen soil by days, I am sure. As we plant, a cold wind is numbing my fingers. At their best, my fingers are not as agile as Virginia's. She is scooping and plunking in bulbs faster than I can complete the digging of just one hole. Just holding my body erect is tiring. Digging holes stretches all endurance but I am persisting. Visions of daffodils springing up out of the snow drive my planting. "They were on sale," she is saying, "otherwise, I wouldn't have bought so many!" |