We had always favored geraniums in shades of scarlet, orange and salmon pink, and the first white specimen came into our garden only three years ago.
There was no way of knowing our adopted child was white at the time. She had been relegated to the rubbish bin of a nearby nursery as being beyond redemption, and there was nary a bloom or a bud to be seen. Her leaves were tan and crumbling, the soil of her battered residence was as dry as dust and billowing away like smoke on the wind. The despair emanating from her plastic pot was almost tangible, and so I brought the rejected orphan home in my cotton tote bag.
Watered and lovingly tended, our rescued geranium leafed out lavishly, and she bloomed so joyously in her new home (a fine blue bamboo pot) that her brightly colored kin could not hold a candle to her radiance. Since that time, there has always been a white geranium in our garden in her honor, and in August its white blooms and lush green foliage convey all the quiet serenity of a monastery garden.