I Didn't Love Enough

I remember awaking Christmas morning to sunshine, oh, such sunshine, filtering through the bedroom curtains. As I drew them back, I could see that the potted amaryllis and narcissus on the patio table, one red, the other white, were rejoicing in a warmth seemingly stolen from summer. What wonderful gifts from the season, I thought: Summer-like sun coaxing spring bulbs into a glorious early bloom, solely for my pleasure. I didn't have to do much, really. I kept the pots indoors and watered them from time to time. Not too much, you know. But just enough to bring them to full bloom Christmas morning.

 

It wasn't long after summer ransomed its sun from December that the cold set in. Weathercasters said it was the first hard frost seen in Southern California since 1976. Surely in the 24 years I've resided here, I've never seen such damage done overnight. I awoke one morning to find all 5 of my hibiscus dead. Brown, dry, brittle, the leaves crumbled in my fingertips. The Egyptian Papyrus wasn't in much better shape. The tall reeds, usually green, usually supple as they swayed in a breeze, were now brown and just as brittle as the hibiscus leaves, easily snapped in half by the winds which blew throughout the night. The Robellini palms didn't fare any better, either: several outer fronds on all of the palms were brown, too, and sagging to the ground. The Vincas? Dead. The Queen palms? Struggling. Ivy Geraniums? The vines burned beyond recognition.

 

Last weekend I happened to catch a television show. It may have been Victory Garden, or at least was patterned after it. The segment I caught was an interview with the horticulturist at Huntington Garden. He explained how during a hard frost, the water in the plant's cells freeze. In the morning, the sun warms the foliage more quickly than it can adjust, causing the leaves to burn. He suggested wrapping more delicate plants in blankets, to keep the warmth in, halting the freeze. He stressed the importance of understanding how each plant may react; how the placement of plants in relation to buildings will make a difference; how watching weather reports and preparing accordingly will determine whether or not a plant will sustain damage and/or recover.

 

I turned off the television and went outside to walk through the beds in my yard. My poor babies, my sweet darlings, were clinging to whatever life might be left in their branches, their fronds, their leaves, their roots. Most of the plants and trees have been with me for the past 11 years. And I failed them. I didn't love them enough. As with the amaryllis and narcissus, I never spent much time with them. I am so fortunate to live in a nearly maintenance-free climate. A little water, a little plant food, a little pruning from time to time and everything thrives, so I thought. I never really paid attention. I took them for granted. The horticulturist said it wasn't wise to begin trimming the dead leaves and branches and fronds quite yet, "not before the Ides of March", so I spent my time apologizing. I'm so sorry, Sago. Please forgive me, Robellini. Hibiscus, will you please bloom again? Rose, Rose, I need you. Please come back to me. Silly? I don't know. No sillier than naming the birds and trees and squirrels when I was a child, I suppose. I promised them all that I would never again neglect them. I would provide for them, keeping them watered and fed and pruned and warmed, when necessary. I would always love them enough.

 

Last week the rain came again, pouring throughout Thursday night and into the next morning. As I was leaving the house for work early Friday morning, I almost missed it, next to the dead hibiscus: One white Siberian Iris was in full bloom. Just one. And it was perfect. I stood there with my purse over my head, pretending to shield myself from the rain, as I studied the creamy white petals with soft pink centers. Every petal was perfectly formed, perfectly colored, perfectly open, just for me, it seemed. I thought of taking a picture, but I realized that no captured image would ever portray the full and complete beauty of this singular bloom and the message it conveyed. I know it heard my promise, felt my love and appreciation for all the beauty it has provided over the years.

 

This morning as I passed it, still standing tall and proud, I noticed something else: little, tiny, bright green leaves sprouting amid the brown, dried ones, on every branch of the hibiscus. When I looked up, I noticed the beautiful pink blossoms on the ornamental plum trees. There were only a few, but they were blossoming, nevertheless.

 

Maybe I didn't love enough. But they did. They are stronger than I thought.