Sometimes, something special happens.  Well, I suppose something special happens more often than we realize, but sometimes we notice. I am sitting by the pool, gazing at clouds that look like they’ve been sponge painted across the sky…only God could do that.  And I think of things… 

A year ago May, my aunt passed away.  She was an unusual person.  She was generous, loyal, hard working, committed to family.  An excellent gardener and cook, and an expert knitter. She was also opinionated, often abrasive, argumentative, stubborn, and basically difficult.  A vulnerable know-it-all with fragile self-esteem.  She was very bright, a master with finance, yet consistently chose relationships with men who could only offer heartache.  She claimed to not be religious, though we found bibles and religious articles in every room of her home.  She had many talents, and many problems.  She was a contradiction, and she was ours. 

I could fill a book with anecdotes, some pretty funny in retrospect.  But this is about something special. 

Niki was not given to outward displays of affection.  When we were children, our grandparents (her parents) would warmly hug and kiss us goodbye.  Niki would coolly turn a cheek.  As adults we would literally have to grab her and force a hug upon her.  I don’t think she minded, she just didn’t feel comfortable being the hugger.  Yet, she sent cards for every occasion, including Easter, Halloween, and Valentine’s, always adorned with cute little stickers, and simply signed “Love, Aunt Niki.”  No one else ever mailed me a valentine.  There were no valentines in the mail this year.  I almost expected one. 

In her beautiful Berkeley hills garden was a painted wooden sign that read “Niki’s Garden.”  I took it home and put it in our front garden on one side of the walkway by the porch.  Though our garden isn’t as impressive, I thought she would like us to plant it anew among growing things.  I’m not a gardener at all.  My thumbs are black right to the bone.  But this past November, I planted bulbs.  I always meant to every fall, however it seemed I never got around to it.  Niki had planted them for us once or twice in the past, and we would have beautiful tulips in the spring.  She always planted hundreds in her own garden.  So this past fall, among others, I planted white and yellow narcissus in front of her sign, as a sort of tribute. 

All of the bulbs sprouted, but the white narcissus in front of her sign outgrew all at a furious pace.  By January, they were in full bloom, while all the other bulb plants were only a few inches high, nowhere near blooming.  They made me smile each time I passed.  Perhaps these bloom early.  I don’t know.  But I liked to think that Niki made them bloom. 

Scattered around the garden, the crocus and tulips each took their turns.  Of the yellow narcissus, half were planted by Niki’s sign and half a few feet away where they had the same amount of sunlight, same drainage, same exposure to rain.  As the white waned, the yellow sprang to life in front of the sign.  The other half of the yellow bulbs bloomed weeks later.  

Our front garden faces north.  It gets afternoon sun, but very close to the house it stays shaded.  Thus the closest beds all point their faces toward the road, tendrils stretching toward the sunlight. 

Except this once.  

As the spring flowers inevitably faded away, a grey-green plant called a Dusty Miller sent a large shoot away from the sunlight and back toward the house.  The rest of the plant reached for the source of sunlight, but this one shoot grew backward, about 18 inches back into the shade until it had reached Niki’s sign, where it wrapped itself around the wooden stake, and curled upward toward the painted letters where the leaves spread out in a graceful fan around the edge of the board. 

It is summer now.  On each side of the walkway, near the porch, the hydrangeas are in bloom.  My husband had cut them back some time ago, and they started the season unequally.  One was small and stunted.  The other was larger, strong and healthy, with large deep green leaves, and tiny buds that would become colossal pink blooms.  Fast forward to the present.  The plant that started stronger looks healthy, with two big beautiful blooms.  The runt is now enormous, with ten big blooms, and buds hinting of color to come.  I keep straightening the sign next to it, and each time I pass by, I find it gently leaning toward the plants that grow in profusion before it. 

Is there a logical explanation?  Possibly, maybe even probably.  Perhaps for some reason the soil on one side of the walk is richer this year.  Perhaps the drainage is better even though it doesn’t appear to be so, or the sprinklers are more accurately aligned.  Perhaps the sign has just come loose in the soil.  Or perhaps from God’s beautiful garden, a soul who loved deeply but could only show it indirectly, visited mine. 

Each time I pass through the front door, I look closely at our garden, admiring, and looking for anything extraordinary.  Because sometimes, something special happens.  Sometimes we  notice.