Every spring for the last six years, a single lily in my back garden pushes up through the warming ground, reaching skyward toward the sun.
Every year it tries to grow tall; every year it fails. I don’t know why, and perhaps I should have put the poor thing out of its misery years ago.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to pull him up.
This year was no different. A month or so ago I began to see the first signs that my little lily was going to give it a go again this year. I gave it props for its persistence, but I knew how this story would end – without anything to show for its trouble. I thought about pulling it up.
I didn’t.
Last week I went out into the backyard and discovered a big fat bulging bud on the end of a ridiculously thin stalk. It wobbled around in the wind like a bobble-head. Again, I gave the little thing props for trying, but I didn’t think it would last. How could it, it had never bloomed before.
So, imagine my surprise when I peered out into the growing light this morning and discovered this:
Of Bears and Boating 