In the Garden of the Heart... a Dream.

"I have a dream", August 28th ... every year.

In the garden of the heart... there had been a dream.

The shots rang out; 10 lay dead. The former gardener read the news and wept. If his parties had continued... if he hadn't left? 50 years had tarnished the dream that had been abandoned; but the message full of hope was still the same. The revolution of the heart seemed stuck in a time loop. Regardless, it was always the right time to rise above fear; the future was always clear. He hoped others were tending his garden.

He felt for the young man who acted out of fear. Could he have made a difference? He felt for the victims, checking for names he knew, knowing that his former neighbors must've known them. The shooting was only 4 blocks from his once beloved garden. So close, so far away. Was the memory of roasted chicken still lingering in the air?

For many years, in the garden of the heart, there had been a dream.

...

The garden was silent. It was the morning of August 28th. Just another late-summer day... begging for rain, the gardener begging for one sunny day, just one.

The bees grazed the blue florets of the globe thistle. It was their happy place in this world. The gardener petted them. As tame as a gentle shower, they lazed in the shade of early afternoon. The gardener guests would be as well behaved.

The guests... they brought their burdens with them. He hoped they'd set them down at the gate. He prayed for them every year. The arborvitae raised their silent limbs in solidarity. The soft gossipy buzz of the flowers concurred. By the vesper hour...

Momen and his family had brought chicken. They set the grill up by the sidewalk. The empty tables were expectant. A few chairs, scattered here and there, ready.

The guests slowly arrived. A young couple, weary from work, showed up to help. Miss Oralee came across the street with a pan of baked cheese and macaroni. Carol, with no time to cook, arrived with two pizzas.

The fledged birds hid among the fluttering leaves of the ginkgo, curious at this new event in their lives, watching for crumbs. The ginkgo explained the yearly ritual. It was time for humans to gather, set aside their weapons of war, the blades of well sharpened tongues. Yes, there would be crumbs.

Momen began to cook as Petra supervised and Fazl greeted the guests. One by one, the neighbors followed their nostrils up the street and into the garden.

The grass felt the well-worn soles caressing them, while the seats inside, reserved for those who needed to avoid the heat and sun, welcomed Miss Haynie and her grandson. He carefully placed an apple dump-cake with the other desserts, went out to speak to the other youth while his grandmother joined the grey-haired crowd.

The fragrance of chicken wafted down the street in spite of the still air, barely a breeze. It whispered about foreign lands of past wars, of grief left behind. That was then; this was now; here they were and the chicken was ready.

The gardener listened to the chatter, the melody, the harmony, the clash of any discordant note. This was his day to heal the past, to provide a peaceful future. It was the 28th of August.

By now 1963 was shrouded by time. Old folks wanted to forget. Youth had no clue. The civil strife seemed distant as the chasm that divided them, stranded them on either side remained, still guarding the nothingness between them.

On a hot summer day, long ago, a bridge had been built. The gardener encouraged his guest to cross it, every year, for the last ten years.

The garden had grown to provide a safe haven for more than birds or bees or ginkgo trees. They were the not-so-silent witness of change. They would share their gossip with the gardener later.

Then a drunk showed up. The garden party didn't serve hard drinks. Refreshment? Sure! Food? All kinds. He was welcomed, fed and gently taken around the block to where he'd come from. In Martin Luther King's dream, no one was excluded. And this was the commemoration of that dream. Drunk on the euphoria of the moment, and surrounded by what must've been a choir of angels, he'd implored people of all sizes, shapes and colors of the rainbow, to embrace each other in peace.

The gardener, however, was not an orator; but he firmly believed that if flowers could share a garden in peace, so could the people in his life.

The party lingered after the hour of twilight. This year the party was a success. No fights and whatever discord that had been voiced smoothed over. He vowed to do it again and again, every 28th of August.

© Kåre Enga (31.juli.2025)

wc: 805