The Boy sighed at the sight of his favourite elm tree in the backyard. It was truly destroyed by the fire. If this had happened three or four years ago, he couldn’t have cared less; but now this tree was close to his heart. The Boy had nursed it from a young tree and it had grown, albeit slowly, into a slightly larger elm. Sure, it wasn’t a towering tree providing shade like the eucalyptus out front, but this tree was special.
The Boy remembered how he used to love gardening. He was addicted to it. He chuckled at the thought of that; other people his age were addicted to alcohol or killing people in video games, and here he was being obsessed with gardening. Then it happened. The Boy adopted a puppy – a playful little beagle with a brown patch covering its ears, contrasting with its white fur. Macy. He sighed, reminiscing in the fun memories The Boy had enjoyed with Macy. He spent countless hours with the beagle, and began to neglect his little orange tree.
The dog, that is. Run over by a heartless man who was clearly going over the speed limit on his suburban street. The Boy was distraught. His run was broken and tears constantly streamed down his pale face. He blamed his parents. He blamed his best friend who was over having a drink with him. He blamed himself for lifting his eye from Macy. He blamed his garden for being a distraction.
Out of sheer anger, he destroyed his little orange tree, and his quaint petunias that he cherished so much. If Macy can’t survive, nothing should, The Boy thought.
Years passed. The Boy stayed away from gardening completely and found new hobbies. Baseball, painting and playing the clarinet. The Seed was planted in his heart when he visited his best friend’s house that warm Summer’s night. His friend was having a party in his beautiful garden. The Boy gazed at the magnificent plants in the garden, tears forming in his icy blue eyes. How beautiful the plants were.
The Seed in his heart blossomed into a longing desire to start gardening again. And he did.
But it was all gone now. The fruits of his labour, all his beautiful trees and flowers and shrubs, destroyed. The fire had been ruthless, but had miraculously left his house unscathed. Deep in his heart, The Boy knew he would’ve gladly sacrificed his house to save his garden, but it was too late.
The Boy fell to his knees and started weeping at his loss. He had tried to bring his garden back to life with water and rich fertiliser, all in vain. Nothing could save his garden. He cried for what felt like days, but must have been only an hour. He hadn’t cried that hard since Macy was killed.
It was getting dark, so The Boy went back inside and fell asleep like a log.
The next day The Boy went to greet his dead garden. With jaw dropped. On his mutilated elm tree was a single bud. A bud of hope, that would hopefully grow and blossom. He found himself crying again. It was alive. His garden lived.