Who Got the Short End of the Stick?

The next morning I wake up and something tells me it’s almost noon. I jump out of bed – I don’t even need my coffee - and open the blinds. The sheer volume of photonic activity causes fireworks to explode inside my brain sending shock-waves throughout my body. When all the noise subsides, a thought finally crosses the threshold of my consciousness,

There was no tap on my window this morning, immediately followed by a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I remember how mean I was to the space gardener, telling him what to do and how to do it. I remember his impassionate speech about love and mystery and barefoot gardening and the defense of the life of a weed and I know he’d left me. Never to return again. Despite the fact that I was called Opinionated and Obsessive-Compulsive Weed Exterminator; despite his unorthodox approach to gardening, I realize I can’t bear a thought of never seeing him again.

Then I hear a soft rustling in the bushes in the back. I look out of the window and there he is! I am so relieved to see him I want to hug him and punch him at the same time. I linger undecided as I watch him quietly behind the window.

He walks slowly, bending here and there to pick up a dead branch, pull a weed, pausing frequently.

Looking.

What does he see?

Listening.

What does he hear?

I hesitate before I open the door and venture out, then clear my throat with a mock cough.

I overslept today. Why didn’t you wake me up?  I muster as much normal out of my voice as I can, trying to suppress the bubbling mixture of terror and relief.

You needed rest.

I guess I did. But, ... I find all my defenses and pretenses melting in his presence. I thought you’d left… never to return again. … I was scared...

I thought we had an all-inclusive no-end contract deal, he states matter-of-factly. Then he adds with a wink,

I guess you are stuck with me. … And I with you.

I think you got the shorter end of the stick. I am so happy I can’t even explain it.