Promptly, by May 31st of every year, for over twenty years,
I planted a border of shocking pink impatiens along a winding
hedge in my front yard.

When my friend, Ellen, died in March, leaving a husband
and two young children, I didn’t feel like planting flowers.

The bright blooms seemed like an affront or a celebration.
All I felt was loss.

By the second week in June, neighbors began asking me,
“Where are your flowers?”

“I haven’t gotten around to it,” I replied.

By the third week in June, I reasserted my refusal to plant.
It had become a personal protest directed at the Universe.

By the fourth week in June, I was confronted by Marni, my
eight-year-old next-door neighbor, “I miss your flowers,” she
said.

I relented.

But I was still mad at the flowers.

I went to the nursery and bought two flats of bedraggled,
reduced-for-clearance impatiens.

I placed the flats on the ground, next to the hedge, and scooped
out holes in the dirt.

Then bravely, I confronted the object of my rage—

An assortment of slightly-wilted-little-growing things.

I felt the need to apologize to the plants, but they weren’t the
type to hold a grudge.

With great care, I tucked the spindly sprouts deep in the ground,
pressed the dirt firmly around each base, and watered them.

They thrived.