That mischievous red-head...he knows my heart. He tromps in on a December noon...hands me a brown paper bag and tells me to peek inside. He's gotten me something. Paper whites - six of them. Well, at the moment they're just bulbs but soon they will grow into those gorgeous blooms. He knows I love to grow things...love seeing the earthy roots dangle about...love having a sprinkle of life in the midst of winter. I walk to the kitchen. Pull the vessel from above and force the delicate roots into a stony foundation. I fill it with water, just enough for the roots thirst to be quenched, and place them next to a window but days later - nothing. A few more days go by - still nothing. Upon inspection the bulbs had molded. "Throw them out. They're useless now." He says in a frustrated tone. Everything seems hurried to this young man. He gets it from me. But age, and time, and heartache, teaches patience. I wait. Maybe all they need is a bit of time? Perhaps a