March Books

“We'd hardly stepped three feet outside when Bee gasped, pointing to the garden to our right.
"Henry!" she exclaimed, surveying hundreds of delicate light green leaves that had pushed up from the soil in grand formation, showcasing a carpet of tiny lavender-colored flowers, with dark purple centers.
Bee looked astonished. "How did they... where did they come from?"
Henry shook his head. "I noticed them two weeks ago. They just appeared."
Bee turned to me, and upon seeing my confused face, she offered an explanation. "They're wood violets," she said. "I haven't seen them on the island since..."
"They're very rare," Henry said, filling the void that Bee had left when her voice trailed off. "You can't plant them, for they won't grow. They have to choose you."
Bee's eyes met Henry's, and she smiled, a gentle, forgiving smile. It warmed me to see it. "Evelyn has a theory about these flowers," she said, pausing as if to pull a dusty memory off a shelf in her mind, handling it with great care. "Yes," she said, the memory in plain view. "She used to say they grow where they are needed, that they signal healing, and hope.
It's ridiculous, isn't it, Henry, to think that violets can know," Bee continued.
Henry nodded. "Harebrained," he said in agreement.
Bee shook her head in disbelief. "And to see them in bloom, in March of all months..."
Henry nodded. "I know."
Neither took their eyes off the petals before them, so fragile, yet in great numbers stalwart and determined.”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March