The Gift

Every year, I plant them in pots which I keep on the porch steps, where I will smell them when they bloom: tuberose, that is. I plant them in May and they usually bloom in August, these tropical beauties who are not native to these parts. Their scent is heady, overwhelming. A little sniff goes a long way.

But this year, they took a while to bloom. It was a long, cool, rainy summer, and the tomatoes we planted didn't do so well. Neither did the tuberose. I've been babying the tuberose plants in two pots, pulling them in at night when it gets too cold, babysitting them, watching, waiting. Worrying about how soon the first frost may come to snatch them from me.

And then, on this day, the blooms opened! Finally! We had placed them in the yard in a sunny spot, and my husband brought me out. "Come and see," he said; "Bring your camera." And there it was: the first flower had opened! And the scent was nothing short of heavenly.

The minute I saw the flower bloom, a creamy white butterfly - the same exact color as the bloom - fluttered over and sat on it. I wish I could have captured that moment, but I was too far away, the butterfly was far too quick. It didn't linger; it had places to go, things to see, things to do, before the cold nights come.

I can only imagine what the butterfly thought, meandering around our mid-October yard, with almost nothing left in bloom. And then: such a gift! A tropical bloom, unexpected, smelling of faraway lands filled with colorful flowers and dancing girls. Just one sip, and off it flew, carrying with it the faint scent of tuberose, and memories of sweet, sun-drenched summer days.

The song: Annie Lennox, The Gift.