Gardener

GARDENER1

It is nighttime, and overhead, the stars twinkle brightly in the dark expanse we know as the sky. I smell the sweet lavender and feel the grassy grass. Who am I? The woman calls me "Rosebud," and she is known among us as "the Gardener." I am shy, and stay curled up, not showing my face to anyone. Not the other flowers, not even the Gardener.2

Sometimes the Gardener says that I am so pink because I am embarrassed to not be showing my face, but I am sure she knows that this is my natural color. I have listened to her conversing with the garden, making all the flowers feel at home.3

The Gardener always makes sure to treat each one of us as an individual who deserves respect, and cares for us from our petals to our roots. She says that a while I am in this curled-up state, I am only a bud. She wants me to break out of my shyness shell.4

It starts to rain, and the drops trickle down, satiating my thirst. I slightly stretch out my petals towards the sky, and let them feel the gentle precipitation. I think of what the Gardener tells me every night before she goes into the house to sleep.5

~"You are still a bud,6

Gathering up the courage7

You will need to bloom."~8

I've decided that I don't want to be just a bud anymore.9

As the droplets splash softly on my petals, I stretch them out just a little more.10

In the morning, the sunlight bathes my face, illuminating the beads of morning dew lying fresh on my petals. The lush grass is moist from the rainfall the night before, just the way I like it. Soon the Gardener comes to check on us, and looks surprised that I am not curled up into a ball, as usual. She smiles.11

"Good morning, Rose."