Over the next few weeks， Albert reappeared. He was reserved， but there were no other episodes. Coworkers cornered5 me in the break room. "Guess you got to Albert，" they said.
I shook my head. "Albert and I are becoming friends，" I said in faith. I refused to talk about him. Every time I saw Albert in the hall， I smiled at him： After all， that's what friends do.
One year after our "talk，" I discovered I had breast cancer. I was thirty-two， the mother of three beautiful young children， and scared. The cancer had metastasized6 to my lymph nodes7 and the statistics were not great for long-term survival. After my surgery， friends and loved ones visited and tried to find the right words. No one knew what to say， and many said the wrong things. Others wept， and I tried to encourage them. I clung to8 hope myself.
One day， Albert stood awkwardly in the doorway of my small， darkenedhospital room. I waved him in with a smile. He walked over to my bed and without a word placed a bundle beside me. Inside the package lay several bulbs.
"Tulips， "he said.
I grinned， not understanding.
He shuffled9 his feet， then cleared his throat. "If you plant them when you get home， they'll come up next spring. I just wanted you to know that I think you'll be there to see them when they come up."
Tears clouded my eyes and I reached out my hand. "Thank you，" I whispered.
Albert grasped my hand and gruffly10 replied， "You're welcome. You can't see it now， but next spring you'll see the colors I picked out for you. I think you'll like them." He turned and left without another word.