Our back yard isn’t very big and mostly shade—but in a sunny corner, I plant a flower garden every spring. It’s nothing fancy, just a few rows of zinnias, marigolds, pansies. But never petunias because they looked so fragile, so flimsy.
Last year, however, I couldn’t find enough zinnias or any pansies, so petunias were my default choice. I had to admit the colors were lovely—deep purple, vibrant pink, pale violet. Still, my expectations were low for these delicate blossoms that didn’t last very long or stand very tall.
Instead, I watched the zinnias and marigolds grow high on their strong stalks, their bright flowers repeating shades of red and orange, gold and yellow. Then, as the summer wound down, I saw them wither and fade—while the petunias just wouldn’t quit.
Fragile as they were, their blossoms kept unfolding week after week into the fall, reminding me of invisible strength. How I can’t always predict where help will come from.
When my daughter was very ill a while ago, some people I had counted on simply disappeared. But one friend, who is an invalid herself, was resolute in her support. She couldn’t bring me casseroles, couldn’t even leave her house—but she opened her door to me and opened her heart.
I will never plant my garden again without sturdy little petunias.
