Once there was a little sprout in a little pot that sat neglected on someone’s windowsill.
Sometimes the light shone in, but only for brief periods, before it passed on to sunnier places.
The little sprout was thirsty, but had to rely on the woman in the apartment, who always seemed in a rush.
Many times the little sprout would see the woman at the sink filling the watering can, just until her phone would ring at which point she’d leave the can on the counter and forget all about it.
This was very frustrating for the little sprout bc of how close she was to quenching her thirst. But in this case, close was an impossible distance.
The little sprout spent her days dreaming of the future, dreaming of a place unrecognizable from the one where she currently resided, a future where she would be the most beautiful sunflower, tall and full enough never to be ignored. A future where just the sight of her presence made both children and adults smile.
But she had no idea how to arrive at such a future. Especially considering she wasn’t thriving at all on the woman’s windowsill. In fact, as much as she had hope, she knew her days were numbered.
One afternoon, the woman noticed the withering little plant and her heart felt guilty. “I don’t know what I was thinking imagining I could care for another living thing,” she muttered out loud. “Oh well.”
And so she lifted the little potted plant off the windowsill and carried it haphazardly down the stairs.
She thought about placing the plant on the first floor landing, in case anyone wanted to revive it. But as she passed the waste bin, she realized how much closer it was. And her hands were already tired from carrying the potted plant plus her phone and bottled water.
So with a guilty heart, she tossed the potted plant into the waste bin and walked briskly to her favorite cafe to order something extra sugary to dissolve her guilt. Which it did.
Meanwhile, the little plant was in bad shape. Bc of the tumble into the bin, her pot had cracked. She shifted around, to make sure she was still secured enough in the soil, when suddenly, a cool liquid began to soothe her out of nowhere.
Miraculously, when the woman tossed her into the waste bin, her pot had first knocked into a bottle of uncapped spring water that someone, lord knows why, had only sipped from. So for the first time in… had it been months? The little plant drank.
“Who could have imagined,” the little plant thought, “that anything as grand as this could happen after being discarded in a waste basket!”
For the rest of that day, the plant had no time to be sad. She felt nourished at last, her stem, robust, her hope heightened.
Not until the little plant began getting used to feeling fully quenched, did she once again begin to feel the quiet desolation of the dark dank bin.
That night, the little plant dreamed again of her future. These thoughts always soothed her when nothing else did. She loved imagining herself tall and strong, in fertile soil, absorbing the sun, fully in bloom and appreciated.
But once morning arrived, she awoke once again in her cracked pot in the waste bin on that first floor landing where she’d been discarded.
The plant felt thirsty. And withered. And then, despair set in. Until she heard a noise... A disgruntled human muttering: “Another day in hell. Dealing with this god damn trash… Every god damn day, the same god damn thing. I’m damn tired of this.”
The little plant nodded. She had no way of communicating with the man but if she did, she would have said, “I know exactly what you mean.“
The man lifted the cover off the trash bin, and made eye contact with the little potted plant.
“Who throws a god damn plant in the fucking garbage. Has nobody got any respect left for life?”
The little plant hoped the man’s words meant he was going to save her, and she watched carefully for his next move.
The man kept the waste basket’s lid open as he wheeled it down the apartment stairs and outside in front of the building.
The stairs jostled the little plant’s pot and she held herself steady as she felt it crack a bit more. But by this point, the plant didn’t care. Bc outside, the sun was so bright, and shone so warmly inside the can and on her stem and baby leaves.
The man looked inside and made eye contact once again with the little plant, but only said, “Fuck it,” closed the lid and left.
The little plant was back in the dark. She could hear all sorts of sounds on the city streets, much louder than she was used to back when she lived on the sill.
She sat in her pot listening for a bit. Until she felt too weak to pay attention. And it was hard to say how much time had passed before the lid to the can opened again.
This time, looking in, was a face. A curious face with inquiring eyes and a nose speckled with scabs and dirt. Then a hand, also speckled with scabs and dirt reached in and scooted her aside to retrieve a brown paper bag.
He opened up the bag as if he knew what would be inside and retrieved a styrofoam container. Then he lifted the lid and with a plastic fork began to shovel what looked like fried rice into his mouth.
“Sickening,” the little plant thought, as tiny grains of white rice fell into her pot. But just as the little plant began to wince, the man made contact. “Aw“ the man sang. “What stupid ass threw you away? You’re not dead yet, are you?”
The man carefully set the styrofoam container back into the waste bin next to the potted plant and then carefully retrieved the plant.
He lifted it out and held it right up to his face so his eyes were staring right into the little plant’s first leaves. “Don’t you worry. I’m gonna take good care of you,” he said. “There’s hope for you still.”
The man’s words were like music to the little plant. And she dug her roots into the soil as the man carefully placed her into his backpack, hopped on his bike and rode away down the street.
“How’re you doing in there, Miss Plant?” the man called back, as he whooshed in between taxis and busses. “You ok? Won’t be long. I’ve got just the right spot with some nice sun and we’ll give you a nice drink.”
Ten minutes or so later the homeless man carefully retrieved the potted plant. And the little plant looked around. The man was smiling at her, and she noticed what a nice face he had, even with a cracked tooth. “I wonder what kind of plant you are. Well, we’ll find out eventually, won’t we.”
The little plant was curious too. As much as she wanted to be a sunflower, she actually had no idea what kind of plant she was going to be.
The man slid some newspapers off a bench in what looked like the very rear of a large community garden and he sat down, placing the plant next to him on the bench.
“Welcome to my home. Might be humble for some, but it’s a castle if you ask me. And the nice old woman who owns this plot along with this bench doesn’t mind me here bc she says I have a green thumb and a golden heart.
“I take care of her garden and in exchange, she brings me food and friendship. And I don’t think she’ll mind you being here at all. But I don’t think you’re ready to be planted yet. So I’ll just keep you in this pot awhile longer. Just till you get a bit stronger.”
Then the man took out a tube of glue from his backpack. “This ought to do the trick,” he said, squirting a long shiny line of it onto the crooked crack.
The little plant felt the soil tighten up around her roots and it felt nice. Secure. And she relaxed, listening to the man tell his stories, the air from his breath filling her with life.
“I wasn’t always like this, just so you know. I was kind of like you, if you wanna know the truth. I had hope. I was young. A young little sprout. I had fresh ideas. New ideas every day. And I shared my ideas with everyone I met. What did I care? I was looking for a partner, someone who wanted to try stuff out with me.
“Oh I had dreams. I was gonna make it big. And people loved my ideas. Oh yes they did. They took every last one and went to town with ‘em, except they never brought me along. I can’t tell you how many times it happened. I’d read about my ideas in the paper and see my friends’ names as the originators. And when I asked them why, they’d tell me they couldn’t talk. That they’d get back to me later. Then, they’d block my calls. And when I’d see them on the street wearing their new fancy clothes, they’d take one look at me and make a beeline in the opposite direction.
“So I figured I’d better stop giving my ideas away. But I still couldn’t catch a break. I lost every dead beat job I had bc I was always too busy thinking up new ideas. And eventually, I figured I’d just stop working period. So I could think about my ideas in peace. And that’s my story, Miss Plant.”
The plant felt bad for the man. It seemed so unfair. What kind of world was this, where the people who’re kind, with the best ideas, live on a bench, and the people who’re the criminals, who steal other people’s ideas, get to live in fancy high rise apartments.
It was as if the man could read her thoughts. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking what a sad man I am. But you know what? I’m alive. And, I know I’m alive. Which sounds like a simple equation. But I will tell you what. Most people, they live their lives wearing blindfolds, not even realizing the miracle that’s happening. And that’s why they have no good ideas.
“I mean look at you—you’re alive! With so much hope! And yet someone tosses you in a trash can. See what a good thing it is that I am who I am? Otherwise you would have just died in there, like so many others who’ve been discarded. But look at you now! You’re growing. Just like me. We’re growing together! We’ve got sun, we’ve got air. Good ideas. Seriously. This, is the dream come true: life. It’s truly all we need.”
The little plant liked the man. He didn’t look sad anymore. In fact, when she looked out at the street, at all the fancier people walking by, they were the ones who looked sad. They were the ones who really didn’t seem to notice what the man was talking about.
“I want to introduce you to someone,” the man said later that afternoon. I found her growing in a sidewalk crack a few blocks away. I thought we could plant her next to you, so you could both have a friend.”
The man held out an almond milk carton cut in half, filled with soil. And in the middle, a tiny little sprout stood strong. “I’d introduce you, but I don’t know what kind of plant she is either.”
The little milk carton sprout looked at the little potted plant and smiled. “Glad to meet you,” she said.
“Hi,” said the little plant. “I’m glad the man found you. What were you thinking, growing in the middle of a sidewalk? You’re lucky you weren’t trampled!”
“It really wasn’t my choice. All I can tell you is that I sprouted up on a busy street. I thought everyone did. It’s been rough. I lost my whole family. Everyone was run over by shoes or bicycle tires. But somehow, I remained in tact and began to grow. Which was especially stressful
knowing that at any moment I’d be crushed.
“But alas, this man noticed me. And he carefully removed me from the crack I grew in and next thing I knew I was secured in this container and brought here. He’s the only one who ever saw me. He looked at me and he said, ‘These people in this world, they have no idea what they’re trampling over on their way to better places. You are precious. And I’m going to care for you.’”
The little plant smiled from her pot. “I’m glad he rescued you.”
“Me too.”
The man took good care of his new potted plants. Everyday he spoke to them both. And every day they grew bigger.
And one day, the milk carton plant began to sprout its first leaves, “Did you see,” she asked the potted plant. “Look what I woke up with!”
“Oh my goodness!” the potted plant said excitedly. “You’ve got leaves! How does it feel?”
“It feels… right.”
When the man woke up, he gasped. “Would you look at this! You’ve got leaves! Well I’ll be damned! You’re a tomato plant!”
The milk carton plant beamed. “A tomato plant!”
“That’s a fine thing to be. Everyone loves those ripe little red tomatoes. You’re gonna do alright for yourself. I’ll make sure to keep you strong so you get to grow as big as you were meant to be.”
The little plant was so proud of her friend. “You’re beautiful,” she said.
“And don’t you be jealous,” the man said to the potted plant, as if he were reading her mind. “Your day will come. Everyone grows and blossoms in their own time. And that’s just what’s so. It’s neither good or bad. So don’t you worry. You’re alive. That’s what counts. You’ll just have to wait a little longer to find out what you’re gonna be.”
The little plant smiled. She appreciated the man’s golden heart. And she knew he was right.
Life in the garden was simple and joyful. The man took such good care of every flower and every plant that grew and gave extra special attention to his two rescues. And every afternoon, when the elderly woman arrived, they’d sit on the bench together and talk about the world.
She’d bend down slowly and admire how everyone was growing so beautifully. “This one,” she said to the man about potted plant. “She’s growing bigger. But funny, I still have no idea what she’s going to be.”
“She’ll be something grand, I know that much.”
The elderly woman loved how caring the man was. “You’re too good for this world,” she said to her friend.
Before the elderly woman left for the day, she invited the man once again to stay in her apartment. “I don’t know why you always refuse. I have two empty bedrooms for Christ’s sake.”
But the man always politely declined the old woman’s invitations. “I like it out here in the world,” he always said.
“I’m just worried about you.”
“No one’s gonna bother me here.”
Late one night, the man fell asleep after talking to his plants, when he was awakened by footsteps. Two cops had received a call about an armed robbery and they were looking for a suspect.
“Wakey wakey,” one of the cops said, tapping the man’s shoe with his nightstick
The man sat up, startled.
“You know you can’t sleep here.”
The man smiled. “Good evening officers. Everything ok?”
“We’re looking for an armed robber. Where were you at 4pm?”
“Taking care of my garden here. Well, Edith Powell’s garden. She hired me to watch her plants.”
The cops laughed. “24-hour plant watchman. Right.”
“We’ll need you to come back to the station. Answer some questions.”
“What?!” the man said, escalating. Not so much out of anger, but bc he’d been woken up from minding his own business. “But I didn’t do anything!”
“You’re gonna need to come with us,” one of the officers said.
“And you’re also going to need to shut your damn mouth before there’s trouble,” said the other officer.
The man was shaking now. He couldn’t believe that in this world, these two human beings felt they had the right to not only disrupt an innocent man, but remove him from his context against his will.
“I have proof,” the man said, reaching into his pocket for Edith Powell’s number.
“Not one move,” one of the officers said, his hand on his weapon.
“Trust me. Edith will vouch for me. Just call her.” And the man continued reaching into his coat pocket when the officer fired his weapon.
And then, the man stopped moving.
“What the fuck did you just do?” the other officer asked.
“He was grabbing his gun!”
“His gun?” The officer lifted the man’s hand, which was holding the piece of paper with Edith’s handwritten number. “You fucking idiot.”
“Shit,” the other officer said. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”
The officer sighed. “Call it in as gang violence. He’s just another homeless man. Nobody’s gonna miss him.”
Every single plant in the garden was devastated and sobbing inconsolably.
“Noooooo!” the tomato plant cried.
“You assholes!” the little potted plant wailed. “You have no idea what you’ve done! You’ve killed one of the good guys! He was alive for one thing—to help everyone around him grow! And you dimwitted fools! You useless lifeless wastes of space! You’re supposed to protect people! And you killed him! For no reason! Like he was worthless! You killed my favorite person!”
The potted plant and the tomato plant and all the other plants in the garden were still weeping when the ambulance came to take the man away. And that was that. He was gone. Forever.
The following day, Edith Powell arrived, the same way she arrived every morning. And she was surprised not to see the man. Especially considering that the man’s bike was still propped up against the back of the bench.
With arthritic fingers, Edith Powell examined everyone’s leaves, looking for signs of having been watered. And when she found none, she knew something was wrong.
“Where’s Edmond?” she asked the plants, her voice nervous.
The little plant wished she could have communicated with the old woman, to tell her what had happened, but she couldn’t.
And that’s when the woman noticed blood on the ground beside the bench. And when she bent down to take a closer look, she began to weep. “No,” she cried. “It couldn’t be. Not my Edmond. Not my golden-hearted friend.”
Edith called every hospital and every precinct, but no one had a single bit of information about Edmond—no one knew who he was or what had happened.
The old woman took over caring for her garden. But she could barely water the plants, bc of her constant weeping.
“This world is heartbreaking,” the tomato plant said to the potted plant.
“It is,” the little plant agreed. “But don’t you remember what the man used to say? If you’re feeling feelings, it’s a good thing. A real good thing. It means you’re alive. So never stop feeling. Even if you soak yourself with tears of sadness or you choke on your own snorting laughter—you be glad you’re alive! Even if no one around you seems to notice!”
“I just miss him so,” the tomato plant sobbed.
“I do too.”
One morning, a few months later, the plants waited for Edith Powell to show up as she did every morning to water them. But she never arrived. And though the plants continued to wait day after day, their hope faded, and they never saw Edith in the garden again. Nor did they ever find out for sure what happened, though the plants were fairly certain she must have died of a broken heart.
And perhaps it was all the weeping that helped Edith Powell’s garden grow into most robust garden that anyone in the area had ever seen.
The tomato plant was now enormous. Even the potted plant had grown way too big for her pot, though still, no one knew what kind of plant she was.
Children and their parents visited daily to admire all the plants and harvest her vegetables. Poets and musicians sat on her bench, just to contemplate life and celebrate all its beauty.
And then, one day, a new caretaker arrived. A very tall woman, with limbs as slender as birch branches, wearing a straw hat with a gap between her two front yellowed teeth.
“Hello, plants!” she announced. “I am your new gardener! My name is Betsy Fork. And I’ll be telling you all a great deal about myself and I’ll expect y’all to do the same.”
Over time, the garden grew accustomed to Betsy Fork’s voice. And she was right—the whole garden quickly found out just about everything there was to find out about Betsy Fork.
Betsy Fork had arrived to the city without much of anything on her back, as they say. Except unlike other stories about people who move to cities with next to nothing on their backs, Betsy Fork remained without much of anything on her back. And, she preferred it that way.
“The less I have, the lighter the load. The lighter the load, the less I need to worry about losing it. And the less I worry, the more time I have to notice what’s really going on around me—life!!!!”
The potted plant and the tomato plant grew quite fond of Betsy Fork and her passion for life. And they were not at all surprised that Betsy had come to her conclusions about life the same way all their favorite people had—by losing everything.
“Aren’t humans the strangest,” the tomato plant said one morning. “They have to lose everything just to finally notice what they’ve always had.”
“They are peculiar that way,” the potted plant agreed.
Life in the garden was simple once again. The sun shone or the clouds took the sun’s place so that the rain could do its job.
Every morning, Betsy Fork arrived at the garden to share her stories and every afternoon, after Betsy left for the day, all the plants shared their own stories and admired each other’s growth.
As the days continued, the weather shifted. It grew colder. Especially in the evenings. Betsy Fork began to cover some of the more timid plants with blankets. And as autumn approached, the tomato plant began to weaken and wilt.
It was an unspoken truth that some of the plants wouldn’t survive the cold weather. And so everyone grew a bit sad without saying exactly why.
“Don’t you worry,” Betsy Fork said to the tomato plant. “I’ve saved your seeds and we’ll be planting you again in the spring. You will continue on. I will make sure of it.”
“But will I still be me?” The tomato plant asked.
It was as if Betsy Fork could hear her concern. “I’m not sure the difference between me and any other me,” she said. “All I know is that if I pay attention, no matter who I happen to be, I will know that I’m alive. And what else could I possibly need to remember?”
That satisfied the tomato plant. And she relaxed a bit.
And so did the potted plant, who was now so big, she had to be replanted in an enormous planter.
“As for you,” Betsy Fork said to the plant. “I’ll be taking you with me.”
The potted plant gasped.
“Well, we can’t be planting any trees in this garden. It’s not allowed. It’s for plants only.”
“A tree???!!!” thought the potted plant. “I’m a tree!!!??? Well, I suppose that shouldn’t come as too great of a surprise. After all, I have been feeling sturdier than usual. But still, I had no idea I was a tree!”
“That’s right,” Betsy Fork continued. “You are going to be a tree. And not just any tree. You, if I’m not mistaken. And I’m rarely mistaken. And that’s just a fact, not a brag... are a Weeping Willow!”
“Oh my goodness,” the tomato plant sang. “Of course that’s what you are! You’ve been weeping since we met!”
The potted plant smiled, only slightly sarcastically. “Hmm. That does makes sense. But yet… I really wanted to be a sunflower. And make people smile. Not weep.”
Once again, it was as if Betsy Fork could hear the plant’s concerns. “Weeping Willows are very important and very special trees. They happen to be one of my all time favorites. Maybe even my favorite favorite. Not only bc you’re beautiful trees. But bc you don’t hold yourself back. Weeping Willows weep all over the place. It’s a tree of mourning and grief, yes, but it’s also a tree that can withstand hardship and difficulty and offer compassion.”
“Of course you’re a Weeping Willow!” the other plants in the garden chimed in. “Look at all you’ve been through and yet you keep growing stronger!”
The potted sapling appreciated the encouragement. And yet, she was still figuring out how to handle this news. I mean, it was a pretty big deal. For her whole entire life she’d been planning for a particular better future. Looking forward every single day to becoming a sunflower. And now, all of a sudden, this future was never going to be possible.”
“Come on,” the tomato plant said. “You have to go with it. Can you imagine how sad I’d feel every day if I had wanted to be an apple tree? I’d be embarrassed and depressed about every single tomato I grew! But I embrace my tomatoes. Bc that’s what I’ve become. I am what I am. And people are glad I am what I am. And if someone wants an apple, they’re not going to think less of me that I don’t grow apples. They’ll just go get an apple and come to me when they want tomatoes. We can’t be everything! We can only be who we are.”
“Well that does make sense, I suppose.”
“Of course it does. Oh no. What are you weeping for now?”
“Well, just bc it makes sense, doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy.”
“Well, I’m proud of who you are. You are capable and strong. And I’m going to miss you like crazy.”
The following day, the Weeping Willow said goodbye to the tomato plant and to the rest of the plants in the garden, and Betsy Fork said her own last goodbyes to every single plant in the garden.
Then she lifted the enormous potted sapling, and together, they headed off down the street and into the subway all the way to 197th street.
Out in the brisk autumn air, Betsy Fork checked in with the sapling. “Now we’ve just gotta find our limo and we’ll skidaddle. It’s already packed up with my four belongings. You’ll be my 5th. I know, I know, you’re not really mine. Nobody alive belongs to anyone. But you know what I mean.”
The potted sapling listened to Betsy Fork talk and talk. She really knew how to generate some air. And with each step, the sapling felt her roots bounce up and down just a bit, until they arrived at a dilapidated rusty blue Toyota Corolla. “You’re Limo, Ma’am,” Betsy Fork said, opening up the front passenger door and strapping the potted sapling into her seatbelt.
And after Betsy Fork got into the driver’s seat and strapped herself in, they were off.
“You’re probably wondering where we’re going. And I’ll be honest. I have no damn idea. I figure we’ll find a place that’ll be just right for you to grow. All we need is a little piece of land; somewhere with good enough people that’ll appreciate a tree like you.”
The Weeping Willow was confused. Did this lady seriously just leave the city only bc she wanted to find a good place for me to live?
Once again, it was as if Betsy Fork could read her mind. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m no saint. I need a place to plant myself too. I’ve been uprooted so many times, I can’t even remember what it feels like to have a home. So we’ll be a team. Find the right place for us both to grow. Grow hardy. Grow into the best version of who we are!”
The potted sapling felt content listening to Betsy Fork. And yet the funniest thing was, the main reason she felt content, was bc somehow, she could feel the man in the car with them.
She couldn’t see him. But she could have sworn she heard his voice, all excited. Saying, “Would you look at this?! Miss Plant?! A Weeping Willow!? How did I not know! Oh, you are going to be just fine. And I’ll be watching you grow!”
“I miss you,” the little sapling whispered to the man, just in case he really was there.
“Well I’ll be damned! I can hear you now! Oh, I miss you too, Miss Plant. You’ve come a long ways from that trash can. I’m proud of you.”
“Please don’t go.”
“Oh I’ll be back. You have my word on that.”
“The spirit of things,” Betsy Fork blurted out of the blue. “Hmmm. Always blows my mind.”
“How did this woman always seem to know everything,” the potted plant wondered.
“Yup, it’s the spirit of things that makes a seed grow into a plant and even into a tree. That same spirit of things that resides in every living being. Even me. But you think most people know this? Most people can’t make it through a whole day without crushing the spirit out of one thing or another. In fact, most people wouldn’t hear a spirit if it screamed in their damn ear. But you trust me, little plant, spirits are everywhere. And the real hardy ones, they don’t even need a body. So you pay attention. I’ve got an army of spirits that watch over me wherever I go. Which is a damn good thing bc I haven’t got any real people.”
Betsy Fork and the potted sapling drove and drove and drove. And the sapling wondered if maybe the car ran on Betsy Fork’s voice, bc she did not stop talking the entire time.
“I’ll tell you what, little plant, I say we put our faith to the test. Once we run just about out of gas, we’ll pull over. And whichever we find first is where we’ll go: money for more gas means we’ll keep going, and a vacant lot means we’ll stay put. Sound like a plan?”
The little sapling nodded, even though it sounded like a very bad idea. One that wouldn’t end well at all. But like all things in the little plant’s life, she was at the mercy of those around her. So she just hoped for the best.
“Besides,” the little sapling thought. “What’s the worst thing that could happen? I’d have less of nothing? I’ve already been learning that nothing is actually something that can give a person all sorts of unexpected gifts. And so far, life has been leading me from one gift to the next. So maybe trusting Betsy Fork isn’t the worst thing I could do.”
Once Betsy Fork’s car sounded the ding that informed everyone that the gas was just about all used up, she pulled off the exit ramp and told the little plant to pay attention.
“We’re doing spirit work here, ok? At least I hope we are. Otherwise we’re just damned fools. And I don’t know about you,” she said, turning the wheel with all her might bc she was out of steering fluid, “spirit work has a much nicer ring to it than stupidity.”
Betsy Fork looked around. “Welp, this looks as ugly as any other exit I’ve seen. Let’s try it out… There’s the gas station. Might as well go in.”
Betsy Fork pulled into the gas station, parked at the pump, and started looking for quarters underneath the seat. “I’ve been known to find a meal’s worth. I may be a gardener of plants, but I swear sometimes I’ll drop a quarter on the floor and come back a month later to find 7.”
Betsy was too tall to see under the seat, so she opened the door and got out, and from there, stuck her head back in and searched the car floor, looking for anything shiny.
“Welp” she hollered. “If they’ll let me pay for gas with old french fries, we’ll be good for a couple hundred miles.”
Meanwhile, a man had walked over to the car,
a man with dark blue eyes, a dark mustache and stubble where a beard was starting to grow.
“You need any help?”
Betsy Fork lifted her head out from underneath her car seat and the moment she saw this handsome man standing there, her previously light-skinned face turned as red as a tomato.
Betsy Fork touched her face with her hands and blushed even more. “I’m so sorry,” she explained. “I was looking under the seat for pocket change… and I must have rubbed my face against the carpet or something. Feels like a pretty bad burn,” she said awkwardly.
The man smiled. “Did you lose something?”
“My money,” she laughed with a snort. “I was hoping maybe I’d find some of it underneath the seat. But I guess that’s not where it went.”
The man took out a twenty dollar bill.
“Oh, I couldn't do that.”
“Is that a Weeping Willow?” the man asked, noticing the plant sitting there, strapped in the passenger seat.
“Oh, you’re good! Not many people would know that at this stage. But she’s not for sale. She’s a rescue.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean I wanted to buy your plant. She’s just beautiful. That’s all.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Betsy Fork laughed, her face turning red yet again. “She is a beauty. She was born in a city garden and I’m looking for the perfect place to plant her… Along with myself,” she said, her nervous laughter ending with another snort.
The man smiled and laughed endearingly. “Well, you might be in luck,” he said. “My sister runs a greenhouse about 90 miles south of here. And she happens to be looking for some help. She’s got a cottage she’s looking to rent in the back of her property, and I don’t want to speak prematurely, but there’s a plot of grass next to the cottage that might make a perfect spot for your Weeping Willow.”
Betsy’s eyes grew even wider than they were naturally and she leaned in to talk to the potted plant. “Are you hearing this? Did I not tell you that I’ve got an army of spirits watching over me? Did I not tell you what happens when you have faith?”
Betsy then went to stand back upright but slammed her head on the car window.
“Damn that hurt,” she laughed. “I guess I forgot the part about keeping your eyes open while you’re bragging.”
The man laughed along. “You talk to your plants just like a good gardener. My sister does the same thing. I have a feeling you’ll be dear friends. What’s your name anyhow?”
“Betsy Fork.”
The man’s face turned pale. “You’re not going to believe this, but my sister’s name is also Betsy.”
“Oh my lord!”
With that, the man called his sister on his phone, told her the whole unbelievable story, which his sister loved every detail of (as he knew she would.) Then he handed Betsy the address and told her he’d come by to see them both in a few days.
And with that, Betsy thanked the man about 200 times, each time more awkward than the last, got back into the car and yahooed so loud the little sapling felt the echo in each of her leaves.
“Can you believe this? Pinch me! Go on and pinch me already bc I’ve got to be dreaming!”
The little sapling smiled. But the funny thing was, she wasn’t nearly as surprised by any of this the way Betsy was. Bc if there was anything the little sapling had noticed so far about the world, was that if you paid attention to what was going on around you, what you’d discover is that every moment is like it’s own exit ramp, leading to something new and unexpected, if only people would be willing to take the chance to try things out.
The problem was, not many people were like Betsy Fork. Most people already had a lot of what they wanted in life and they spent most of their time trying not to lose any of it. And so they missed out on noticing all the other alive stuff that was going on right in front of their faces.
Or, was it a problem?
After all, if the woman in that apartment had paid more attention to the little plant and watered it, she might have stayed stuck for the rest of her life on that sill.
“It’s a strange world,” the little sapling thought to herself. Maybe the world needs all kinds of people to be just exactly as they are and aren’t—people who notice and people who don’t notice—to keep this big engine running the way it’s supposed to.
Turned out, Betsy and Betsy were like two peas in a pod. Where Betsy Fork was tall with limbs like birch twigs, Betsy Logan was shorter and fanned out like a rhododendron bush, with every word from her mouth sounding like a flower in full bloom.
Betsy Logan lived on her own in the farmhouse out front while Betsy Fork lived in the small cottage in back, mostly alone, except for the times Betsy Logan’s brother came by with fresh flowers to take Betsy Fork out to dinner and sometimes out for bowling afterwords (much to the fright of whoever happened to be in the lanes next to theirs when Betsy’s long limbs lost control of the ball and sent it flying in the air.)
The two Betsy’s became fast best friends, caring for the plants and flowers in Betsy Logan’s green house.
Betsy Logan talked to the plants just like Betsy Fork did. And when they weren’t talking to the plants, they talked to each other, and when those conversations finally faded off, they continued talking to themselves. And maybe because of all that talking is why Betsy Logan’s greenhouse flourished.
And every evening after work, Betsy Fork visited the Weeping Willow next to her cottage, who was growing faster and stronger and more beautiful every day.
It had been only a few years and already, that weeping Willow was as tall as Betsy Fork. “How are you feeling today, my beautiful friend?” Betsy asked.
The Weeping Willow always responded bc she knew that somehow, Betsy Fork could understand. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever imagined I could be.”
“Me too,” Betsy Fork replied, resting her head against the weeping willow’s trunk.
Many years later, the two Betsy’s were having their lunch under the Weeping Willow. By this time, she was big enough for a large family to sit comfortably under.
The little plant, now a full grown tree, loved being able to join in these moments. Not only as a space for shade and beauty, but as part of the family.
The two Betsy’s loved that weeping willow tree as one of their own and included her in every conversation.
Sometimes kids would visit the greenhouse with their school to help out and learn. And the willow tree would hear Betsy Fork explaining to them how everything around them was alive. “You see this tree? I first met her when she was a young plant in a pot. That’s right. People who saw her back then might not have seen anything too important. Most people walked right on by, thinking they were on their way to someplace better. But when I saw that plant, I saw what she was gonna be. And I stopped and I watered her and cared for her. And that’s what I want to share with you kids.
“Before you walk on by, stop a minute. And look around, before you miss out on something special. An opportunity to contribute, to help something grow. Did y’all realize, that you can help things grow? Think about yourselves, think about when someone takes a minute to really see you, see your potential, and help you figure out how to be the best version of who you might be.
“When I first met this little potted plant, I knew I was meeting a majestic Weeping Willow. Can you imagine how many other little plants never get to realize their full potential, all bc someone wasn’t able to see what was right in front of their face?
“And I’m not talking about people needing glasses. I’m talking about people not understanding what’s real: that every single being on this earth has a potential. A glorious potential. It’s sad when people don’t understand this. And it’s sad when people inadvertently trample the potential of things that might have gone on to make the world a more beautiful place.
“So work hard, water the plants in your gardens, and water every life that crosses your path. Including your own. You can be gardeners. For all beings.”
The Weeping Willow felt so grateful. Not only for Betsy Fork, but for Edmond the gardener, and Edith Powell. Because each of those people were the reason, in one way or another, that she was reaching her potential, and making the world a more beautiful place.
She always knew that somehow her future would be a good one. She just had no idea who exactly she was gonna become. And no, she was not what she expected at all. She was even better. Standing tall, full of life, making people and children smile. And then, she heard the man’s voice.
“You see, Miss Plant? I told you. I told you that you were gonna be something grand. And I was right.”
“You’re the grand one,” the little plant whispered. “And I’ll never forget you, as long as I live.
Just then, the Weeping Willow began to weep. And the man weeped along, and then the skies opened up and they weeped too. “Lordy, Lordy!“ Betsy Fork hollered. “We’ve got cats and dogs coming, I can feel it! Children, our lesson will have to be continued next time.”
The two Betsy’s and the children watched the rain fall and they laughed and laughed. But they stayed dry and safe under the weeping willow who stood tall and strong, just like Betsy Fork told her she’d be, back when she was just a baby in a pot: “Weeping Willows may be sad, they may forever be in mourning, but you’ll also be resilient and full of hope, able to withstand life’s hardships and difficult times and provide a safe place for others to do the same.”
The end.
-JLK
