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My dad would have been a disciple of Rule 4 of Anne Lamott’s five rules of universal agreement: “It helps beyond words to plant bulbs in the dark of winter” [“Market Street,” The Dog-Eared Page, April 2022]. One fall my dad planted tulip bulbs and said, “I probably won’t live to see them bloom.” As usual, he was right.
To honor my dad’s love of gardening, I drove 175 miles to his grave site after work one day in the fall following his death. It was twilight when I arrived. In the company of sentinel pines, overseen by a sliver of moon, I planted several dozen crocus bulbs around his grave. Although he wouldn’t see them bloom, come spring I knew he’d feel their presence and the love with which they were planted.