I plant a single ten-foot row of sweet peas every year. God only knows why. I’ve never gotten more than a few dozen blossoms, never enough to clip and bring inside, but I figure it’s the thought that counts.
Sweet peas were Gramps’ favorite flower. They’re high on my list too. So when I soak the seeds, till and mulch the line of soil beneath the wire support fence, and carefully poke each seed just an inch into the fertilized earth, I’m filled with quiet optimism.
Maybe this year they will scale the fence to overflowing. Maybe this year I’ll bring bunches of bouquets into the house. Maybe this year I’ll sit in the yard and enjoy their sweet fragrance with someone special.
No matter what has transpired before, hope springs eternal.
