Lying there, sleepless, she imaged their white venous roots, a mass of them fastening together, forming new shoots below the earth, unfurling their stiff leaves. The tiny spears of their leaves would be showing soon. "To be planted points upward," said a leaflet in the directions. They looked like shelled acorns, only tinier. She'd put on her deerskin gloves and, on her knees, using a hand trowel, dug a shallow trench along the border of her blue Dwarf iris. Just last fall, before the hard freeze, when she was feeling back to normal, the pips had arrived in a little white box. She had planted real lilies of the valley because she liked them so much as a perfume.
The faint odor of that flower, so pure and close to the earth, was comforting. Before she left, she had remembered to perfume her wrist with Muguet. “Sita closed her eyes and breathed into her cupped hands.
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