In late October, I plant the bulbs, exca­vat­ing dirt with my trowel. Soil, my mom cor­rects me, not dirt. She watches, bundled in blan­kets, from her wheel­chair as I set each bulb six inches deep and back­fill the holes. I’m weeks late with them; there’s already been a frost. Do you think they’ll come up in the spring? I ask. But my mom just shrugs, indif­fer­ent. We both know she’ll be gone by then. 

I give the ground a thor­ough soaking with the hose, and we go inside to wait.

My mother dies in mid-December.

#

Tulips only last a couple of weeks before they fade away. Peren­ni­als. They sing their song each spring, then make their exit. When I moved to the Midwest to care for my mother, I wanted a garden. New life. Old life. Circle of life. I started with indoor suc­cu­lents, a jade plant, and soon had three cut­tings. In match­ing clay pots, the plants bask in the east window’s sun. Then my mother gave me the tulips, housed in a large glass con­tain­er, for some color. She was still able to walk then, still able to drive. Got them from the Kroger. After the flowers wilted, I fol­lowed the instruc­tions I’d read online. Kept the bulbs cool and dry until the fall. 

My mother always wanted a grand­child, and I, a child, but this was the best I could do. Plants and my dog, Lily. You can’t force these things, I’d always told her, but she’d just shake her head in dis­ap­point­ment, and say yes, you can. And then for empha­sis, she’d flex her arm muscles and say that you just have to be stronger than your destiny. Hardy, she’d say. It was one of her favorite words.

#

Near the end of March, three months without her, I see the first signs of life poking out of the dirt. Soil. Not the tulips I was expect­ing, but round, fat heads of human babies, their eyes shut tight against the bur­geon­ing spring sun.

Their heads emerge in shades of pink, orange, and peach, the colors of the orig­i­nal buds. When they finally open their eyes, I see how big with won­der­ment they are, watch­ing every­thing. I hear their coos and soft cries. Some­times not so soft.

Though my breasts are dry, it rains enough that I don’t need to sup­ple­ment the babies’ nour­ish­ment. A warm rain that seems to sustain and nurture them. On walks with Lily, I inspect other people’s gardens. I crane my neck, peek behind fences. But as far as I can tell, I’m the only one with babies growing in my yard.

#

The heads give way to shoul­ders. Lily sniffs the fussy new­borns and looks at me, accusato­ry, as though it’s my fault. They have a baby smell, a pot­pour­ri of milk and sugar, soap and petal.

The April sun beams down on them, but it’s not too hot yet. I gaze at the babies, and wonder if I should pick them, put them in a vase. 

The shoul­ders soon become arms, and the arms reach out to me. I feel their want, and think of my mother.

Lily gets too close, and one baby squawks, annoyed and cranky. I offer comfort, touch the baby’s cheek. Just a brief wisp of skin on skin. I don’t want to get too attached.

#

When I was little, we had a small garden at the side of our house, where my mom grew rhubarb and cherry toma­toes. I popped those toma­toes in my mouth like candy. And one year, her rhubarb pie—with meringue on top—came in second in a pie contest. Each summer, I helped her weed and water the flowers. I helped her plant the annuals, always gera­ni­ums and marigolds, and we’d watch for the peren­ni­als, the daylilies and hostas, to bloom. She’d explain how peren­ni­als were less work than annuals, how they go dormant in the winter. Hardy. Can survive any­thing. Like us, she’d say. 

#

Within a couple of weeks, the babies’ crying becomes fainter. They sleep more, their eyes droop­ing shut, so much like my mother in her last days. I tell the babies I’ll see them next year, and wonder if they’ll remem­ber me. 

Before she passed, I told my mother sorry, and she under­stood why, but by the end, it didn’t matter. She apol­o­gized, too.

#

The babies no longer reach for me, and Lily sniffs the ground but her focus is on mole holes now. Peren­ni­als, I tell Lily. They’re hardy like us. They’ll be back. 

END