Spring Ritual

I don’t know about you, but I have a spring ritual. Part one of the ritual begins simply enough; every year about this time I find myself pulling into the area garden shops or over to the Home Depot to buy flowers. I wander among the bushy rows of annuals and perennials, try and think about what colors I like, which pots I will pull out of my garage and fill. But before I know it I am overwhelmed, bedazzled by all the choices, and I trip back across the black top to my car empty handed.
Part two begins with another stop at a flower selling establishment, but this time I attempt to whip my brain into shape before I leave the house by having a cup of coffee or one of those apple sauces that come in a small plastic cup. I begin picking out colors, load them into the metal wagon provided by the establishment to encourage gluttonous spending, and soon I have a few flats of flowers that I can’t wait to take home and plant.
Ah, but then life intervenes, which brings me to the saddest part of my ritual,
Part three.
This final part begins and ends on my patio, where I place the flats of flowers in a shady spot and water them, promising to come back in a few days to put their crammed roots into fresh dirt. They believe me, these small newly adopted orphans, they trust me to care for them. And I do. On the days I don’t forget about them completely I’m actually rather attentive. Unfortunately this kind of behavior results in a few untimely deaths. This year I vowed it would be different; I promised myself that I would plant the flowers on the day I bought them, but as you can see, my word is not worth much. Here sit my latest acquisitions; innocents all, plucky and sprite. Dreaming only of the roomy pot they're sure awaits them.