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Show 207 We must have planted at least 40 bulbs by now and we are only halfway through the sack. The drizzle is turning to rain and we dig faster, putting more bulbs into each hole. In the drops stinging my face, I think I have just seen a thicker, fatter, whiter drop. Could it be the first snow? "Yeah," I reply, "but imagine how it will look in March." "I'll come and we'll just sit in there" - she is gesturing with her trowel towards our bay window and the couch behind it - "and watch the yellow." We are both aware that my being here at that just that precise moment in time is a distinct improbability, if my past absences are any indicator. Clearly unspoken is also the real possibility that I might not even be here on Earth at that time. "And we'll sip some peppermint tea," she is saying, perhaps more to warm her thoughts now than for whatever comfort it might bring at that time. My single, fat, white rain drop has multiplied and there are now more white drops than clear. We are hastening, merely lifting the topsoil higher with our trowels and stuffing the bulbs by the handful into the parted dirt, throwing aside all proper bulb-planting protocol with the possible exception of making sure each bulb is right end up. By the time the last bulb has been planted, our first dug holes are covered with a thin white coat. |
