I looked after it and then I didn’t, and it spent last winter huddled in a corner of the garden near the house with some other neglected geraniums, sheltering each other among the dying leaves and taking their chances. When I finally gave them some attention, snipping off dead stalks, repotting etc it was in a sorry state, more brown than green and no blooms at all. I was tempted just to bin it but in honour of my son and his love for me I kept it and, while I didn’t lavish it with love, I kept an eye on it and snipped obvious dead bits off as close to the base as I could.
It still looks ragged and frost bitten in places, but it’s put forth new growth and I can count one, two, three … seven stems with blooms about to flower.
It’s survived, against all the odds. It’s survived my love, my overwatering and hard pruning – and my neglect. That gives me hope that there’s a power in this world stronger than me and my strategies and lack of them. And that power is a mystery to me so I’m grateful and humbled.
Ps I could have cropped out the milk bottle and the marigolds. But they’re the stuff of life too really, aren’t they?