The Selected Stories

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“See this?” she said to me. “Every year my husband planted dahlias in this empty basket. With a sharp tool he’d dig a hole in the spongy earth; then I’d hand him the bulbs, one by one, and he’d hold them up, slowly covering them with dirt. At night he used to call to me: ‘Come here,’ he’d say, wanting me to rest my head on his shoulder. He’d put his arm around me, said he couldn’t sleep unless I was right beside him, and even though he’d washed his hands, I could catch that scent of good earth. My husband would say the dahlias were our children. He was like that, you know, full of funny little stories, always wanting to joke around, make me laugh. Every afternoon I’d water the basket of flowers. He’d walk through the garden on his way back from work and notice the earth was damp, but still he’d say, as he gave me a kiss, ‘Have you watered the dahlias?’ You see, when I was a young thing, I didn’t like those flowers. They smelled bad. But now, when I pass a florist or a garden that has dahlias, I always stop to look at them. It’s like a huge, strong hand grabs my heart and squeezes it. Makes me dizzy.

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