She tucked the bulb into the hole, then began to cover it with the surrounding dirt. It felt good to be doing it. Good, like it always did, putting her energy, her own life force, into something that would grow.
“That’s why we do it,” her grandmother said, the old woman looking marvelously at the bulb cradled in a little girl’s hands. “The Earth made us, so when we are able, we help to remake the Earth, one precious life at a time.”
“Like this, Grandma?” she said, placing the bulb gently into the hole.
“That’s right. Not too deep. The soil must cover it, but life is hard enough already.”
As with so many things, her grandmother had been right. Life certainly was hard and, unfortunately, the conditions not so easily controlled. Without knowing it then, her grandmother had taught her that, too.
“If only it was so simple for us,” the old woman said. “The hands we meet in life do not always hold us so gently, and often the holes we find ourselves in are so deep we cannot see the top.”
“What do we do then, Grandma?”
Her grandmother smiled. “We do what the plants do, dear—keep fighting toward the sun.”