A little girl was playing outside when her daddy pulled into the driveway after running early morning errands. She ran to welcome him home with a hug, her nose pressing against his large, engraved silver belt buckle, the one he always wore with jeans on Saturday mornings.

He opened the hatch of his Toyota to show her flats full of flowers packed into thin, black plastic trays. She noticed the colors more than the flowers—vibrant pink and sunny yellow in a setting of green. But towering above them were striking silver-white, fuzzy, irregular leaves.

She reached out to feel them.

Dusty miller, he told her.

I’ll be planting these down at the end of the driveway around the mailbox. Do you want to help me?

She did.

Dazed with the honor, she wondered why he had asked her. He usually asked her older sister or younger brother for things like this. But this time, he had chosen her. She felt special—surprised and almost confused, but thrilled.

She doesn’t remember walking down the driveway, but I suppose she must have.

He showed me how to squeeze the black plastic trays—just so—until the flowers were free, roots and all. Together we placed the wedges of dark soil and thickly tangled roots into their final home, the holes he and I had dug together with a pair of trowels.

We gently poured and patted soil around the fragile roots.

I can still feel the soil crumble between my fingers, the sun warm on my shoulders.

As we planted alongside each other, I felt comfortable even when I didn’t know what to do or how to do it. He patiently guided me and answered every question so that it felt like we were holding a conversation. I wasn’t ashamed to do something wrong, to be unsure, to ask twice.

That morning I felt the joy of discovery—nice to meet you, Mr. Miller—the pleasure of acceptance—he chose me—and the freedom of safety—I felt comfortable and capable and loved.

I drank in his acceptance, gulped it in greedy mouthfuls, like it would be my very last draught.

We stood back together admiring our work—the mailbox wreathed in pink, yellow, green, and frosted fuzzy gray.

Twenty-five years later I learned that dusty millers can flower.

Ours never had, or I had certainly missed what must have been a brief flowering. Apparently many gardeners remove the flowers to keep the focus on those finely textured leaves. Maybe that’s what happened.

My first encounter with the golden blossoms stopped my breath. Could it be?

I’ve been noticing dusty miller blossoms since then, late summer blooms reaching out from frosted leaves.

They go down cool on a parched throat.