The Gardener

He had tended the garden faithfully for half a century.

It was a simple field once, untouched and covered by prairie grasses. He had driven the horses himself, guiding the plow that split the earth. His hands had been the first to reach into the soil and bring forth life—the first since the hand of God himself had laid the vast acres of sod. He always felt the weight of his responsibility, his duty to make beautiful and fruitful this small corner of creation.

Mingled with duty, however, was deep love. This land fed him, nourished parts of his soul that nothing else could touch. The hours spent under the baking sun were hours of reverence and quiet worship. He planted seeds like prayers, buried deep in the soil of expectation. He tended them like a father, nourishing and nurturing them to life, reveling in the tiny green shoots of promise.

The garden, in turn, blessed the gardener. A bounty of produce sustained him each summer: squashes, tomatoes, lettuce, and beans. In autumn the deep colors of pumpkins and radishes and late carrots filled his plate. So much was brought forth, in fact, that one warm evening he built a wooden stand and set it by the road. A simple sign hung from its front, “Free Produce.” It was from this counter that empty stomachs were filled. Throughout the village it was known that here, no matter how empty the cupboards at home, there was sustenance and hope.

He filled the land with beauty, sowing flowers of every shape and color. The beds spilled over with black-eyed Susan, daisies, aster, and blazing star. There were pockets of coneflower, waves of lavender, and sturdy bushes of peonies. Borders of neatly planted geraniums and pansies lined the lane to the house. He loved them all as though they were his own flesh and blood, presiding over them with the watchful eye of a guardian. He kept the single vase, beautiful lead crystal given to them on their wedding day, supplied with vibrant bouquets that illuminated the simple kitchen like a masterpiece.

He loved all the plants equally, save one. One stood out among the others, the essence of beauty itself. He had carried the bulbs with him over the waves of the Atlantic, a final vestige of the home he had loved and left. He laid them in beds of earth, buried with relinquished memories of their shared native land. Each spring, as the snow dripped from the evergreens and the sun began to sparkle in the shimmering new grass, the gardener waited with bated breath. He watched through the windows, like a child anticipating the return of his father at the end of the day. He strolled through the barren brown fields, expectant and watchful. Then, as the morning air grew kind and the birds sang their first songs, the delicate petals unfurled like sails before him. He would skip through the gardens, alive with the joy of beauty and remembrance. He reveled in his sea of cherished tulips.

The years were kind to the gardener. His home, like his garden, brimmed with life. The chatter of children joined the quiet conversations of the couple, and the halls of the small house echoed with laughter. The garden’s bounty nourished their bellies. They grew in tandem with the oak trees, each year taller and stronger than the year before.

The seasons turned, as seasons do, and one by one the children were uprooted, each finding a home of their own in which to plant their lives. The house grew quiet and peace settled on them as their heads silvered and the years creased their faces. The gardener gave the hours of his years to tending his garden, his head bent in the worshipful silence of his sacred space.

One winter evening, the gardener slumped in the worn kitchen chair. His shoulders were stooped by the years in the field, his eyes weary and weak. He breathed heavily, laboring to fill the lungs that were once young. She reached for the roughened hand, calloused and stained by the earth he loved. A bluish shadow haunted his lips, and her heart grew heavy. She helped him to the car, easing him into the seat. The lane was a cloud of dust as the bare land grew small in the rearview mirror. She knew, somehow, it would be the last glimpse–his last view of his beloved garden.

She sat by his side in the hospital room and held his hand. She adjusted the pillows at his back. She watched as his chest heaved and struggled, praying it would fill once more with air.

Each day he met her with a smile, weaker than the day before. He reached for her hand. He asked a single question, the syllables punctuated by wheezes, “Have the tulips bloomed?”

She smiled and brushed the hair from his forehead, kissing it gently. “Not yet, my love. Not yet.”

The hours at his bedside became days; the days, in turn, became weeks. Their daily visits followed the same pattern, though she marked the passage of time by the weakening of his body. His breathing grew more labored. He slept away the hours. He rarely spoke.

Then, late one night, the telephone rang. It was time.  

They gathered around him, the family he had tended through the years. They joined hands, bound together by the love he had diligently planted and nurtured. As the moon rose high and cast its silver light over their faces, he slipped quietly from their midst.

The sun rose slowly over the empty house, silent as the grave. The morning mist lifted its sleepy veil as the first golden light of spring fell on the garden. In the gentle breeze, the soft petals unfurled as though pregnant with the wild air of the Atlantic. Row by row, they turned their gentle faces to the new sun: colorful beacons of hope and remembrance. His beloved tulips had bloomed.