I planted the dahlia
One, to be exact, that’s all I had
room for and to be honest,
I’ve never had a green thumb so better to
start small.
Weeks went by and I watered it
And forgot to water it
And once even gave it leftover wine
It sat on my balcony in a pot I got for free
From a neighbor with soil I bought from
Target with my groceries and the bulb I
Picked out and gave the 8 others away to
Another neighbor, retired, who had time to
Tend to a plants how they should be tended to.
Then one night, tonight, after yet another 90 degree day, after 6 therapy sessions in a row, after no time for charting and learning that a
Woman who also mentored me, shaped me, treated me with kindness, died from cancer,
I came home with heaviness of grief.
I cried into my laundry.
Into my book.
Into the sunset staring back at me from across the pool where I tried to read the book and tried to go through the actions to tend to my heart— I gave up and went back to my apartment.
I sat out on the balcony in my swimsuit defeated and looked over at the plant. The one I sometimes talk to and sometimes forget to tend to
And there it was!! My eyes widened.
Weeks of dirt and mulch and now this!
Newness!
A green shoot poked through the top of the soil. A green shoot! The sprout of a flower!
A sprout of hope.
I did it. I freaking did it. A wave of joy spilled over me and I
Am reminded even dirt, even ash, can’t cover things forever. That
we never know when life will shift course,
when things will change,
when our stories will be edited and rewritten and reworked.
That a woman, who can’t cook for shit, who can’t keep plants alive, who grew all green tomatos and needed a recipe for mashed potatoes could grow this.
A flower! From a bulb!
“Time and trust,” their voices say in tandem. I hear them in my head and I see it in front of me, lifting my eyes up from the potted flower to the shifting evening sky.
I see them up there, the two artists who paint and create, the two women who died from cancer and will have their services on the same day, who never knew each other but both knew me, both cared for me, I see them there, wherever there is, wherever we go after we die, wherever we find heaven.
Their paint brushes crossing the horizon in hues of pinks and oranges and blues.
I see them there, painting together and laughing. Peaceful.
“She’ll figure it out,” Pembie says,
“She will,” Amanda replies.
And they go back to their infinite canvases with their knowing laughter.
She said she wanted to plant dahlias. And then she died. Because sometimes
Timing doesn’t work out. I didn’t know you were sick, I kept meaning to call—
Sometimes, life
Is really awful. I planted the dahlia.
One, to be exact.
Not expecting anything. But getting
Everything.
Tenfold.
Dedicated to Pembie Erickson and Amanda Richards
Minister to the Heart 