One afternoon, she peered outside her window. From that spot on the hill, she could see, for what seemed like to her eleven year old eyes, miles. She scanned the scene before her. It was such a beautiful view. She loved to gaze across the town and take in everything: the small bakery on the corner, the jolly mailman who walked up and down the street with a smile on his face, and old “Freckle”, the firehouse Dalmatian who rarely did much of anything. This time, however, something caught her eye that she had never seen before. She pushed her face to the window and squinted her eyes, but she could not make out what was before her.
Knowing that she needed a better look, she grabbed her jacket and sprinted out the front door. She ran down the hill in the direction of the mystery spot, stopping only once to avoid being hit by a car traveling perpendicular to her course. As she got closer, she slowed and finally stopped. Breathing heavily, her eyes focused on the spot.
It was a garden, but not just any garden. It was, in fact, the most beautiful garden she had ever seen. She had never seen such an array of colors. Pinks, purples, and yellows blended together on the left side of the garden. On the right, there were deep blue orchids scattered throughout patch after patch of brilliant orange roses. Towards the back, there were countless types of flowers with colors that she had never imagined. The grass screamed the most vivid shade of green that there ever was and each blade was trimmed to the perfect height. Up through the center of the garden was a quaint little brick path which widened into a small patio. There, a lone bench sat peacefully under of the shade of the only oak tree in the whole garden. A pristine white fence framed the garden, providing an elegant contrast from the glorious blooms. The entrance to the garden was a lovely little gate on which hung a brass colored plaque with writing on it, but she could not make out what it said. Curiously, the gate was slightly ajar.
“This garden,” she thought as she sighed, “is truly a perfect garden.”
She continued to search the garden with her eyes, taking in every angle and every bloom. Since the gate was partially open, she thought about stepping inside for a closer look. Suddenly, something startled her. A budding bush began to shake and she quickly realized that she was not the only person there; in fact, the gardener had been in the garden the entire time. She wondered why she had not noticed him before.
The gardener was a curious man. He wore bluish grey pants, a short sleeved shirt of the same color, and a brown belt, which provided the only form of differentiation between the two articles of clothing. His arms were splotched with green dye from pruning the flowers and his knees were covered with dirt. On his head, he wore an old, tattered, red baseball cap which had been bleached by excessive exposure to the sun. His face was not seen, as he was on his hands and knees, busily working away with his bush.
She watched him for a while, intrigued by his movements. She had never seen a gardener who worked so diligently and carefully, almost as if this garden was of the utmost importance. She thought back to her own gardener, a scary old man who was rather ignorant of anything going on around him. She immediately assumed that this gardener would be the same and decided that he was not worth her time. She would not speak to him; she would watch him in silence.
Soon, she realized that she had been standing there for almost an hour and decided to head home. As she walked up the hill towards her house, she could not help but look over her shoulder to catch another glimpse of the garden. Even from afar, it was breathtaking.
Day after day, she came to visit the garden. She would sit in the same spot, which was inches way from the fence. She did not dare go any closer as she was afraid that the gardener would yell at her and accuse her of trespassing, even though the gate was, as it was every day, ajar. She would wait and watch the gardener tend to the flowers. She was fascinated by how gently the gardener moved and how carefully he held each blossom, like each petal held some sort of importance and worth. She often heard him hum as he worked; his sweet, deep voice echoed softly through the garden.
Today, as she sat and watched, something felt different, though she could not figure out what it was. The gardener was busy working when he suddenly looked up at her. This was the first time he had ever made eye contact with her. She felt afraid that he was going to shoo her away and tell her to never come back.
As she was contemplating her apparent lecture and dismissal, his voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Peyton.” he said softly as he rose from where he knelt.
She was startled. Fear swept over her, but in the same instant that it appeared, it vanished.
“How did he know my name?” she thought. “We have never spoken.”
He walked toward her and, for the first time, she saw his face. He was an older man and his face glowed as the sun highlighted a thin layer of sweat, evidence of his dedication. The black and white stubble around his mouth and cheeks wrinkled as his lips curled into a warming smile.
“Hello, Peyton,” he greeted as he reached the fence.
She jumped to her feet. Though the fence stood between her and the gardener, she stepped back, distancing herself from the garden. She was prepared to flee, but for some reason, she could not look away. His warm gaze captivated her.
“How did you know my name?” she whispered.
The gardener chuckled. He shifted his gaze to the rose bush beside him. As gently as she had ever seen him move, he cupped the most gorgeous Latin Lady rose with his hands. He gently lowered his head to the rose and breathed in its fragrance.
“Mmmm,” he exhaled, “there is nothing quite like this.”
He stood and his gaze returned to the girl.
“Would you like to come in?” he asked, gesturing to the world of flowers around him.
She really wanted to go into the garden, but she could not bare the thought of how damaging her presence might be. What if she broke something? What if she messed something up? What if the garden was forever marred by her footprint in the grass? The garden was too beautiful to take any chances. She could not risk it. Furthermore, she did not want to upset the owner of the garden, whoever he or she may be.
“No, I shouldn’t.” she said and then quickly added, “Maybe tomorrow.”
The gardener did not ask her again. Instead, he suggested that she sit back down where she was before, while he sat down right where he had been standing. He asked her questions and she told him about her school and her family. They laughed and joked. There was something so welcoming about the way he was interested in her life. She wanted to tell him everything.
After about an hour, she stood to leave.
“Wait, Peyton,” he pleaded, “I have something for you.”
The gardener stood and cupped the same Latin Lady rose that he had smelled before. As gently as he could, he broke the stem.
“Why did you do that? Are you crazy?” she demanded.
She could not believe that he would ruin such a perfect rose. Much to her surprise, he extended the rose to her.
“Here. I want you to have this.” he said.
Without taking her eyes off of the gardener, she accepted the rose. As he pulled his hand away, she noticed the fresh cuts and small scars that covered his hand. She realized the blood and sweat that went into preparing this peaceful paradise. The thought of his dedication to this garden almost made her weep. Why was it so important to him? She did not think that this garden belonged to him, but she was not certain, since she still had not seen what was written on the plaque on the gate. Slowly, she pulled the rose to her face and took a deep breath. It smelled more beautiful than she believed anything could smell.
“Thank you,” she managed to say weakly. “This is beautiful, but won’t you get in trouble for giving me this rose?”
“Well,” he began, “I think it will be okay.”
“Who owns this garden?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s for someone special,” he answered.
She really wanted to know who’s name appeared on the plaque, but since the gardener never pressed her for answers, she decided that she would drop the issue. She clutched the rose in her small hands and turned to go.
“Good-bye, Peyton,” he said with a smile, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Sure enough, they met the next day and the day after that. The days turned into weeks; the weeks bled into months. Each time, they would sit on their side of the fence, her on the outside and him in the garden. Each time, the gardener would invite her to step inside the garden.
“No, I shouldn’t. Maybe tomorrow.” was her response.
At the end of each day, she would leave with a new rose. She would head up the hill for home and glance back to view the garden one more time. Every day, she would wonder what it would be like to step inside of the garden and experience the beauty. However, she never once set foot in the garden. She never smelled the bouquet of fragrances that wafted into the air from the flowers or basked in the shade of the great oak tree. She never once noticed the name which was written on the plaque on the front gate.
“Peyton.”
