She’d read the books. Yes, they were annuals. Yes, they could self-sow under the right conditions. But knowing a fact and witnessing a miracle were two different things.
The zinnias had reseeded themselves.
She told him the story of the dried stalks, the winter winds, and the little seeds that had waited. She showed him how the seed heads worked—how each petal was actually a tiny tube containing a seed, how the wind and rain had knocked them loose, how they’d nestled into the soil and known, all on their own, when to wake up.
She knelt in the dirt, brushed aside a bit of old mulch, and smiled.
Do zinnias reseed?
Her neighbor, a young man named Leo who was new to gardening, leaned over the fence. “Those zinnias are gorgeous,” he said. “Did you plant them there?”
Then, one morning in late May, she noticed something odd. Near the back of the flower bed, where last year’s tallest zinnias had dropped their heads to the ground, a cluster of tiny green leaves was pushing through the soil. Not one or two—dozens. They looked like miniature zinnia sprouts, their first true leaves broad and eager.
By July, those volunteer zinnias were a riot of unexpected color—magenta, lemon yellow, and a deep burgundy she hadn’t planted in years. They were shorter than the ones she’d started indoors, hardier, more drought-tolerant. They looked like survivors.