by Esther Davis
I taste the world. Bitter chemicals my neighbors sweat. The sweet nutrients my buried tendrils grasp. Refreshing water drawn through my roots. I feel the breeze ruffling my petals, the rain as it runs down my stem. I sense the sunlight tickling my leaves. Sense, but not see. I only see when the gardener sings.
His shadow interrupts the sunlight’s tickling, and cool liquid embraces my roots. It comes first as a low hum that vibrates my fibers. Then the hum becomes more.
I hear through the gardener’s ears and see through his eyes. A bed of swaying tulips rained on by a can, and a song. A song full of memories. Old. Ancient. He doesn’t know where the song began, only that his great-grandmother learned it from hers…
Read the rest of “When the Gardener Sings” and other short stories in A Dog, 3 Cats, and a Dragon.
NOTES…
While watering my dying strawberries, I wondered how I could revive them. Some people talk to their plants. Maybe that would work. But plants don’t have ears. How are they supposed to hear me? Unless…
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