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She took to gardening when she was twenty, the age when she got her heart broken for the first time. Though she grew vegetables and flowers as a means of distraction from her non existent social life, it soon grew into a hobby. Something that she found joy in, be it the first tiny rose bud that bloomed during spring or the small strawberry that changed from pale green to a rich red as it grew. She tended for the plants gently, pouring all her heart's love and passion into them.
The garden flourished, filled with the fragrance of honeysuckle and lavender that surrounded it. This was her pride, her reason to show off the world that she had indeed, carved a niche in it.
She installed a swinging bench in the midst of those reds, pinks, blues and greens, where she would sit at the end of a long day and read those letters that had started coming in. Letters from a stranger who always signed off with a sketch of a different flower each time, depending on the one that caught his fancy that moment. She started looking forward to the letters now. Writing a reply and leaving it at the end of the garden from where it would promptly disappear the next morning.
They discussed their passion for gardening, the secret ways to keep off unwanted intruders from attacking her beloved plants, his favorite flowers- orchids. The letters grew in length as time went by, but never did he ask to see her. She was hurt, initially. Was she not pretty enough? He must have sensed it through her words as he reassured her that it was not her, but him.
Years went by, the young girl was now a confident woman. Whose calloused hands reminded her of the strength that she was gifted with. Not any more was she bothered by what others thought of her.
On the night of her thirtieth birthday, he finally agreed to meet her. The cake she baked was ready. Frosted with the richest cream and topped with homegrown cherries. The moonlight shone through her garden, playing with the shadows among the blossoms. The wine was chilled and placed in an ice bucket near the swing. They would have their first drink in the middle of her plants, that had witnessed her heart break, the healing and slowly, a love that she had come to yearn over the years.
She heard a husky male voice clearing his throat and slowly turned around. The hair that escaped from her band danced like tendrils in the gentle breeze. She looked at the man standing before her, a shy look on his face. The man that had won her heart through his letters. The man whose limp on his left leg made him self conscious in the company of people who would stare. She took his hand as they went and sat on the swing, the limp on his leg unnoticed by her.
This post is written as part of the Ultimate Blog Challenge for July 2014 and NaBloPoMo, where a new post shall be written on every day through the month of July 2014, for Day 1. Fingers Crossed!
