“Here you go,” she said, pressing a bulky envelope into my hands. “These are your seeds.”
I looked down at the envelope, which had “Hollyhock Seeds” written in her distinctive, spindly handwriting—words I could recognize anywhere. The sight of the seeds brought a smile to my face; I had completely forgotten that I had even requested these vibrant, crepe-paper flower seeds, which had once graced the back of her home like summer guardians. These seeds were true heirlooms, passed down from her mother’s garden when she married my grandfather decades ago.
“I’ll get you some seeds,” Grandma had promised, and true to her nature, she followed through. Even though I had forgotten, I should have known she would keep her word.
I intended to plant them in the spring, envisioning the perfect spot along a stretch of bare gray siding. However, life got in the way, and the envelope ended up buried in my kitchen junk drawer, the seeds lying dormant within their paper confines—a packet of unrealized potential.
During one of our regular morning phone calls that fall, we chatted about flowers. Grandma was my go-to expert on all things gardening, sewing, and cooking. Her rural Arkansas upbringing made her a fountain of knowledge on self-sufficient living. With only an eighth-grade education, she had dropped out to care for her six younger siblings, yet her wisdom was unparalleled.
“I never got around to planting those hollyhock seeds,” I confessed sheepishly. “I guess I’ll have to wait until next spring.”
“Nonsense,” she replied in her characteristic Southern drawl. “Just plant ’em now! They’ll sprout once the weather warms up.”
Skeptical but willing to try, I loosened the soil along the south side of my house that afternoon. I opened the “Holly Hawks” envelope and scattered the seeds haphazardly across the cool black earth, covering them with dirt, convinced that I’d only need more seeds once these failed to grow.
As autumn leaves fell and winter’s chill set in, the earth lay still. When the icy grip of late winter finally melted away, I found myself staring at a barren patch of dirt. Other flowers in the neighborhood had burst into bloom, yet my garden remained empty. Perhaps Grandma had been overly optimistic about planting in the fall, or maybe I had just done it wrong; either way, my hollyhocks were nowhere to be seen.
The next spring, my world changed dramatically—Grandma passed away unexpectedly. The loss was heartbreaking, and it consumed my May and June, erasing my sense of normalcy. I grieved deeply, with memories of those months blurred in gray shadows. I would never hear her sage advice again, nor would I have anyone to gather replacements for the seeds I’d failed to nurture.
Yet, a month after her passing, I noticed something miraculous: small sprouts breaking through the soil. To my astonishment, my hollyhocks began to flourish as if nurtured by her spirit. Though no flowers appeared that summer, I was thrilled that something had grown where I once believed nothing would.
This spring marked the third year since planting, and while my hollyhocks were robust and green, they still bore no flowers. That is, until one day after a trip to the grocery store. As I pulled into the driveway, I noticed a splash of pink amongst the vibrant green stalks. I rushed out of the car, and sure enough—my hollyhocks were blooming. The delicate blossoms of light and dark pink mirrored the blooms in Grandma’s own garden.
The timing of their appearance was especially poignant; they bloomed on Grandma’s birthday, the day she would have turned 87. If I had ever doubted that she was watching over me and my garden, I no longer did.
Thank you for your guidance, Grandma.
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In summary, a seemingly ordinary packet of seeds became a profound connection to my late grandmother, reminding me of her enduring spirit and wisdom. Despite the initial failure to grow, her love manifested in a beautiful display of hollyhocks, blooming on a day filled with memories.