Dear Wigleaf,

Several weeks ago, we spent an entire morning digging, planting dozens of flower bulbs in our craggy little backyard. I'd chosen them in May, from the colorful pages of a catalog that smelled like dust and dried mulch. I planned how I would lay them out—lilies and tulips, daffodils and hyacinths, and four different kinds of irises—knowing full well that I would not see them in bloom for nearly a year. They had names like "Sweet Love" and "Daydream," "Katharine's Gold" and "Gipsy Queen." The bulbs arrived on a fine October day, already shedding their onion skins as they sat like round, brown drops in our palms, just a little heavier than they looked. The sun warmed our backs as we bent over the earth, and our bright voices bounced off the rock and flew across the yard.

It's December now, and the damp skies hang low. The mist muffles everything, even our memories of what we did two months ago. The ground lies sullen and stony beneath the freezing rain, looking for all the world as if there's nothing stirring, breathing, growing below its gray-brown crust.

I don't believe it for a second.
 
—Lavanya




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Read LV's story.

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