The gardener muttered to himself and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tomatoes aren’t supposed to get pregnant.” He’d tried some of those newfangled heritage varieties with that hippie fertilizer his son was always going on about. Organic – that’s what he called it. The gardener shook his head. “All-natural,” his son said. Yep, he bet. Lotsa things were natural, he reckoned, didn’t mean he wanted his tomatoes gettin’ knocked up.
“All anyone wants to discuss are the holes in my petal! What about my stunning color, my ripening form, the seeds I’ve been growing all season? So I got nibbled earlier this summer, so what? Why must that define me?”
The man shrugged. “People are obsessed with appearances and there’s something different about you. There’s a lot they have to unlearn before they’ll see you for everything you are.”
“Ugh! Well, what do you know, you’re just a gardener.”
The man smiled to himself and offered the coneflower a bit of plant food before pushing his chair along the path to the next flowerbed. His garden was stunning this year.