Planting Hope

It's happening. After seven years of thinking about it, looking at it, preparing for it, screwing it up last year, it's finally happening.
The mass planting of bulbs is underway.
Okay, by "mass" I mean 60. Perhaps 100 if my money, shoulders and right wrist hold out.
It must have been the long, snowy winter we had last year, the one that lingered into April, that cemented this plan in my mind. As you approach our property from the north, there is this space along the edge of our yard, these gaps between the sumac and pine trees, that receives a day's worth of spring sunshine before any of the leaves appear.
The perfect growing time for daffodils and tulips.
And whenever I saw this bare, sunlit swath of potential last spring, I kept thinking, 'That space needs colour. It's the perfect spot to plant thousands upon thousands of bulbs."
But sixty to 100 will have to do. (For now.)
This year, I vowed to buy the bulbs early and plant them early; in the past, I've waited until after Thanksgiving but got caught by rainy days, then cold days, by the time change, by rotted bulbs that couldn't overwinter in the laundry room. The planting never happened. And every spring, I was filled with regret and longing.
Spring is not supposed to be about regret and longing. Spring is all about hope and joy and anticipation.
So fingers crossed that in eight months, this vision for a profusion of flowers bursting out of that sun-warmed swath of our yard really, finally happens.