Something Beautiful
Once upon a time, we threw birdseed into flower beds, lined the beams of wooden fences with it, poured it over stepping stones, or heaped it on the cinderblocks of a retaining wall. The birds so favored also carried alien seeds into the garden upon their feathers or in their droppings. It was a collaborative chaos. Many strange and wonderful things grew around these impromptu bird cafes. Wild grasses, tall sunflowers, mysterious shoots. All burst unabashedly from the soil.
Our promiscuous behavior with birdseed had come to Wonka-esque fruition. Giant sunflowers grew to towering heights before turning to seed again. I removed most of our strange harvest before the entire neighborhood succumbed. One renegade seedling whispered to me as I approached with my deadly trowel in hand. It was no more than four inches high, sporting substantial, lovely, dark green leaves on its woody stem.
“I’m really something quite beautiful,” it whispered.
I hesitated. Part of me thought that real gardeners show no mercy, but I said, “Excuse me? Did you say something?”
“Yes,” it replied softly but assuredly, “I’m really something quite beautiful. Please let me live.”
I was skeptical, but readily acquiesced, granting sanctuary. I didn’t need to be a real gardener. Years have passed. The stranger has grown in that spot at the edge of the garden, near the wrought-iron fence, nodding to me whenever I pass. She now stands at an elegant five feet tall. Today, for the first time, she bore clusters of white blossoms among those lovely green leaves of hers.
“You’re really something quite beautiful,” I whispered as I snapped a photo for a Google image search.
“I know,” the mock orange tree replied softly, “thank you.”
“Pittosporum.” I replied in awe.
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