The flowers wait expectantly for Emily's return. The spade, her hat with the pale blue ribbon, the light blue gloves, and size eight, blue canvas shoes lay where she left them. In her haste to get to the hospital, she had left the door open to the potting shed. Emily was gardening this morning, as she had done most mornings for sixty years when the phone call came. It was from her daughter Erin.

"Mom it's time. You'd better get here soon or you'll be too late. Brendan will pick you up in five minutes."

She was halfway to the hospital before she remembered the bouquet, she left behind on the chair. By then it was too late to go back for it.

"Sometimes you can't plan everything to perfection," she mused to herself. Slowly she drew herself away from the flowers to the present. It was not every day that a grandmother/midwife delivered her own grandchild.

As Brendan threaded the empty space between cars, he cursed his fellow motorists for their pace and position on the highway. Emily's thoughts drifted back to the flowers, her garden, and her last visitor; a cheerful robin. She took the robin to be a sign of good fortune for her daughter's labor.

Erin was 29 years old. She had married Brendan two years ago. Neither she nor Emily shared any illusion that a drummer in a popular rock band could or would stay in one place for very long. Each was gratified that he was in town coincidentally with the birth of his first child.

The flowers on the straight back chair appeared once again. Each variety reminded her of one member in her family. She imagined Erin as a red tulip. How regal and proud in stature she was; quick to blossom in the spring. She was popular first born, who had graduated from law school with honors. Erin was giving Emily her first grand child.

Emily's thoughts darkened as she thought of the pansies. The yellow and purple pansies best portrayed Erica her second born. Such a subtle and multi-talented young musician who toured Europe playing the fiddle, banjo, guitar, and mandolin in her band. Pansies are so hardy; just like Erica had been in her fight with mental illness and depression.

Laced through the bouquet were the white blossoms from the apple tree that lay in the center of her garden. These reminded Emily of her youngest daughter, Ellen. She was the most innocent of the three. When she found the wounded, dying fawn that had strayed into a car's path, Ellen could not understand why such things were part of life in rural Oregon.

Finally, the deep yellow buttercups brought her deceased husband to mind. A carpenter, he had dedicated his life to wife and daughters until cancer had taken him from them. Soft as butter, there was nothing they couldn't coax from him with a gentle look and a little pleading.

Emily was startled from her reverie as the small hospital came into view. Emily had delivered hundreds of babies here before. Most were born healthy to loving parents. Some were born to parents whose problems in life overwhelmed any chance a child needed to succeed. This time it was different. This time it was her daughter and her grandchild. As the car screeched to a halt, Emily jumped out. She felt a sense of exhilaration. She saw a new blossom budding forth in her family garden.