From the moment I first sprouted from the ground, the gardeners of this world looked upon me with disdain. Every year when I show my face, they attack me. With poisons and blades, they force me back into the ground, thinking they’ve won. And yet I remain.
With my roots buried deep in the cracked sidewalk, I cement my place in this world. I watch the gardeners through their windows, and listen to the stories they tell the little gardeners.
Today, I caught the end of an argument between a Big gardener and Little gardener.
“Wish on the stars,” the Big gardener says. He does a poor job of matching his words to a melody we’ve all heard before. “Maybe you’ll get some tomorrow.”
“The stars aren’t even out!”
Their argument fades away, the Big gardener insisting the sun is also a star.
I look to the sun.
All these years, it’s provided me with warmth and food, but never wishes.
“Do you listen to our wishes?” I ask.
“. . .”
“The gardeners despise me,” I continue, my desperation pulling forth my words. “I do not know why. I’ve done nothing to them– I’m just as much of a flower as their roses and petunias, aren’t I?”
“. . .”
“I just wish they would see me as something more…”
The sun does not respond in a way that I hear. Instead, I’m met with the sound of thundering footsteps racing towards me.
The Little gardener stands before me. He grins and lifts me up to meet his gaze.
“Mom said you guys give wishes too,” he whispers.
Really? If the stars gave wishes, could it be possible for me to absorb the power through the sun’s light?
With closed eyes, he takes in a deep breath. A great gust of wind is summoned, and I soar.
I can see the entire garden from above. The care the gardeners give to their plants. To each other.
I hear the joyful music of an ice cream truck. The Little gardener runs to the Big one, begging for money.
Our wishes come true.