As I sat in my kitchen yesterday, I happened to glance at the yellow primrose nestled between two non-descript leafy plants. My husband bought her for me a couple of weeks ago out of a desire to add a splash of spring not only to our windowsill but to the Sunday of my January weekend as well.

Daily, I witnessed once-vibrant yellow flowers lose life, turn brown and die. I hadn’t bothered to check the soil to see if it was wet. I assumed that, much like the African violets I’ve purchased in the last several years, this primrose was doomed anyway, so what was the use?

But yesterday, for whatever reason–it really doesn’t matter anymore–I decided I hadn’t been a good care-taker of this fragile little plant and would give her one more chance to flourish and bloom. I hustled over to her with a sudden sense of urgency to examine the current state of her affairs. Hanging over the yellow pot were lacklustre leaves that drooped and seemed to have lost any chance of a meaningful rescue. I decided to try to save the primrose anyway, believing she deserved a chance to resurrect herself in the face of the recklessness, the carelessness she had been shown.

Damage done.

Standing over the garbage can, I plucked off one dead flower after another when suddenly, I saw new blooms peeking up through the dirt despite neglect and drought. I didn’t allow myself to get too excited, though, because the once-unnoticed buds were listless, too. Figuring neither of us had anything to lose, I walked her over to the sink, turned on the faucet and adjusted the flow to a gentle whisper, and I gave her a long-overdue drink.

Within the hour, the leaves and buds that I figured were long-gone and beyond recovery stood up with grace and reached for the sun.

I finally realized the kitchen windowsill offered ample light for the primrose’s good and healthy life, and I was relieved I hadn’t killed her after all. She is more resilient than I had given her credit for.

It was I who had misjudged her strength.

Finally confident, I ripped the instruction label off the yellow plastic pot that hugged the dirt and the leaves and the delicate yellow flowers because I now knew, without any doubt, how to properly care for her (moderate light and moist soil).

Then I folded the sticky paper between my thumb and forefinger, rolled it into a tiny ball and threw it away.

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