Yesterday marked my eighteenth anniversary in this apartment and patio.  Every year, just when I think they’re not going to, the hostas’ purple flowers bloom.

Several years ago I rescued a desiccated plant from someone’s curbside trash.  I felt it still had life, so I brought it home, watered it, and told it it was safe.

When I woke up one morning, its bright pink flowers, which I hadn’t known even existed, had bloomed.  They didn’t last long, and the plant died soon afterward, but I know it was the plant’s way of thanking me for giving it a chance.