Blooming

The violets are blooming.

They've been blooming for two weeks which I take as a sign of botanical harmony.  It hasn't always been that way.  The violets and I have had a rocky relationship over the years.

There was the messy business of the African Violet plant food that was supposed to nourish their fragile roots but nearly killed them.  For weeks I watched the violets teeter on the brink of burnout.  Like a powerless nurse during a prolonged epidemic of Ebola, I gathered and tallied the daily toll of  limp yellowish leaves, hoping there would be survivors to rebuild the colony.  There were no blooms that year but the violets soldiered on.

They even went on to forgive me for the long dry spells of forgetfulness when their earth went hard as rock. They forgave me for the woman-made moonsoons that made them sit in mud.  They forgave me for singing to them. 

Or so it seemed.  In fact, they were gathering strength.  The survivors were stronger, smarter and lustier.  They multiplied like wild rabbits.  They hung out of their pots and attempted to creep out of the room.  

I couldn't blame them for wanting to leave but I was in charge.  I acquired more pots and proceeded with the delicate task of neonatal violet transplant.  Only half the newborns died, which I learned was a very decent yield and probably the reason why the adult violets decided I was good enough for them after all.  

They've been blooming since Thanksgiving, sending shimmering bouquets higher and higher every week in their very slow and very quiet version of a fireworks display.  I am enjoying the show and in no rush to get to the grand finale.  The violets and me, we are in this together, for better or worse, till death or draught do us apart.