Between the rosemary and the lavender, in the clay-like soil where I scraped out a place for a daffodil bulb, there is a small green flag rising above the dirt. I noticed it on Sunday. And while I applaud its will to live, I’m a little concerned about it. Does it know what time of year it is? Is it planning to bloom in January? Because that won’t really be a good idea. Maybe I doomed the poor thing after all, defiantly ignoring the planting instructions just to get it in the ground somehow.
And as I said before, its fate and mine are eerily connected. On Monday our neighbor will be coming over with her mother and a contractor to look at our condo and decide if they want to buy it. And I’m really hoping they’ll want to, because otherwise we’ll have to go through all the ordeal of waiting for interested buyers and trying to get the house clean and showing it to strangers and all that. And I really want us to decide to buy the house in Fresno that we’ll be looking at when we go there for Christmas. In short, I want to bloom in January too. I want to bloom, NOW. I don’t want to wait. I hate waiting.
It’s just that there’s the little issue of January, February, March, April, May and June. I suppose if my daffodil can hang in there until, say late February, maybe I can as well. At least by then most of my IEP meetings for the year will be over with, and Spring Break will be coming. And maybe I can start packing then, and just forget about April and May.