A year ago in May, I ordered daffodil bulbs during an online sale. The box of bulbs arrived in September, in the middle of the horrendous move. I was so busy I didn’t think of the bulbs again until October, as the ground began to freeze.
One frantic afternoon after work, I chipped at the semi-frozen mud where Damon had dropped a bucket-load of topsoil to smooth a bumpy spot near the garden shed. “Just live through the winter and I’ll move you next fall,” I promised the bulbs as I planted them with numb fingers.
Daffodils are tough and hardy. Most of them obligingly survived.
Right now it is the last two days of my school year. We’ve had houseguests. I hosted a class party. I’m swamped with reports to write and have to host a staff gathering for fifty tonight. I am moving the sheep for an hour every morning before work and walking the dogs for an hour every day after. A few days ago, I had just peeled off my dress clothes after graduation when I heard the dogs barking as a group let themselves into this house (without knocking) to tour it. I jumped into jeans and a t-shirt and ran down the stairs barefoot to grab the dogs and act the part of a genial tour guide.
I’m a little harried but I’m sure, like the daffodils, I’ll survive.