“Here, take this,” she said, handing me a slightly crumpled envelope. “These are your seeds.”
I looked down at the envelope, its surface marked with “Hollyhocks” written in her familiar, delicate handwriting. The sight made me smile. I had completely forgotten that I’d asked for these seeds of the tall, leafy plants that graced the back of her home, flourishing like colorful sentinels in the summer sun. These seeds were true heirlooms, passed down from her mother’s garden when she married my grandfather many years ago.
“I’ll gather some seeds for you,” Grandma had promised. And naturally, she kept her word. I should have known better than to doubt her.
I planned to plant them in the spring, envisioning a perfect spot along a bare stretch of gray siding. But as life would have it, the envelope was tucked away in my kitchen’s junk drawer, the seeds lying dormant — a packet of unrealized possibilities.
During one of our regular morning phone calls that fall, our conversation turned to gardening. Grandma was my trusted advisor on all things green, sewing, canning, and even frying the best chicken. Despite having only completed eighth grade to care for her younger siblings, her wisdom in self-sufficient living was unparalleled.
“I never got around to planting those hollyhock seeds,” I confessed, a hint of shame in my voice. “I guess I’ll have to wait until spring.”
“Nonsense!” she replied in her warm Southern drawl. “Just plant ’em now! They’ll come up when the weather warms.”
Though I was doubtful, I decided to give it a shot. I opened the envelope and scattered the seeds across the cool soil, covering them with dirt and half-expecting them to fail.
As the leaves turned, and winter settled in, that patch of earth remained bare. When spring rolled around, I grieved the loss of Grandma, who passed away unexpectedly. Her absence left a void, consuming my May and June with sorrow. I longed for her advice, for her gentle way of nurturing not just plants but people too.
Yet, a month after her passing, I noticed something remarkable: a few green sprouts emerging from the ground. Miraculously, my hollyhocks were thriving! Though they produced no flowers that summer, I felt a connection to my grandmother, as if she had guided them to life.
Fast forward to this spring, and the hollyhocks had returned, stronger and more vibrant than ever. But still, they were just leaves and stalks.
Then one day, returning from the grocery store, something caught my eye. Amidst the green, I spotted pops of pink. I leapt from the car to investigate. There they were — blooms of soft and deep pink, just like Grandma’s beloved garden. I was overjoyed.
Their blooming day was particularly special; it was Grandma’s birthday. She would have been 87.
If I ever had doubts about her watching over me, they vanished that day. Thanks for the help, Grandma.
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In summary, my grandmother’s enduring legacy lives on in the beautiful hollyhocks that bloom each year, reminding me of her nurturing spirit.
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