Prologue
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Ben
My small fingers, dusted with rich earth, carefully press a tiny unidentified seed into the soil. "Mom," I ask, looking up at her sun-kissed face, "why do we plant so many different kinds of flowers?"
She offers me a gentle smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Because, Benny," her voice warm and gentle, "each one is a little bit of magic. They bring all sorts of colors and smells. They also call to different types of butterflies and bees. It's like creating a colorful party for all the little creatures in our garden."
"I love parties. Especially the ones with presents," I tell her with a wide grin before looking back down into the bucket of seeds.
She scoops a handful of wildflower seeds from the rusted tin pail we're sharing. "Think of it like this," she continues, letting the seeds trickle through her fingers, "if we only plant one kind of seed, it would be pretty, but imagine a whole symphony of colors, a chorus of buzzing and chirping. Variety makes our garden sing." She spins with her arms out wide as if she's dancing to the music of the garden orchestra as she hums a made-up tune.
I join her, the sound of buzzing leaving my lips mimicking the bees that will soon be swarming the garden.
"Come on, little bee, let's finish planting these seeds. It's supposed to rain in a few days, which will help our seeds grow."
Working side by side, we continue planting the seeds, content in the sounds of nature around us. Mom always looks the happiest when she's in her garden. I love it, too. Because she does. But I do enjoy the way the soil feels on my fingers, the smell of the damp earth.
It's not just about the flowers that I love; it's about the time I get to spend with Mom. Just the two of us. A simple joy of watching something beautiful grow together.
Entering the kitchen, the smell of bacon fills the space. "Good morning, Benny, guess what today is?" She asks with a gleam in her eye.
I look around the kitchen and notice old Mason jars sitting on the counter. I instantly smile. We get to explore the garden we planted a few months ago.
After scarfing down my breakfast and cleaning up the dishes, Mom and I head out to the backyard. The old wooden screen door slammed shut behind us.
Mom hands me a small pair of gloves and a pair of clippers. "Be careful with these; we don't need to spend the day in the emergency room."
"I will," I promise and slip on the gloves before grabbing the clippers.
Mom and I spend the day sitting in the garden. We get lost in exploring the critters that have made a home among the sprigs, and even a few bees seem to have taken a liking to some brown and yellow blooms.
"Mom?" I ask hesitantly.
"Yes, sweetie?"
"I was wo-wondering, do you think I could use one of these jars to make Ms. Tibball a small arrangement? I think it would be nice to do something for her." I ask, hoping Mom will let me take the neighbor some flowers.
Ms. Tibball is the older woman next door who helps me with my reading a few days a week after school. I hate that my brain jumbles the letters. When I was in kindergarten, I asked my teacher why the letters moved around on the page, and I was sent to the principal's office for playing around in class and making the other kids laugh. She said I impeded their learning. That’s a fancy word for disruption. She's one of those teachers that I will never forget because of how awful she made me feel about my different kind of brain. I was labeled a problem student early on, but I wasn't. I just wanted to know why my brain perceived words and letters differently from those of my classmates.
I was diagnosed with dyslexia when I was in second grade. Reading and writing are hard for me. Ms. Tibball is a widow, and she has been so kind to volunteer to help me with my reading. She makes learning fun, and there are times I wish she were my full-time teacher.
"I think that’s a wonderful idea. It's always kind to do something nice for those who help us," she tells me, placing her hand on mine. "Don't ever forget to be kind, no matter what."
I don't know why, but those words feel huge to my ten-year-old ears.
We finish collecting flowers for our individual projects. Mom made some flowers she said my dad would like, and I made some for Ms. Tibball. Both arrangements were filled with the brightest blooms we could find–golds, blues, and reds. They are mini versions of our garden that takes up a large section of our backyard with Mom's tiny white potting shed right in the middle of it. It looks like something out of one of the storybooks she reads to me.
"Your flowers are beautiful," Dad tells Mom with a kiss to her cheek. She blushes from the compliment. Dad takes the dishes over to set the table for dinner. Mom is making tacos.
"Thank you," she says, accepting the compliment. "Benny made some for Ms. Tibball to thank her for all her help with his reading." She offers me a little wink before turning around to check on the food she's preparing.
She doesn't see Dad's face drop. It makes my stomach feel twisty like a rollercoaster ride. Like I did something wrong. He doesn't say anything aboutmyflowers. That's okay, Mom is my best friend anyway, and she's happy with my kind gesture.
And so life goes on. It's mostly Mom and me at home since Dad works long hours. He's a tow truck driver and mechanic. He owns his own shop and works hard. I wish he had time to hang out with me and Mom, but he doesn't seem interested in the garden, not like us. I still go over to Ms. Tibball's house a few times a week for reading help. My reading has improved, but I'll never be a strong reader. That's okay, though. I enjoy art class better anyway. I can be creative and express myself.
"Have a great summer, everyone. I wish you all the best next year while you navigate high school." Mrs. Klein tells us when the last bell of the day rings.
