'The Watcher Nurtures His Own Garden’s Secret' by Cheryl Skory Suma

Today, he’s twelve years grown. No more time for dreaming. His watchful eyes carry around pain and stolen observations, then stuff them in pant pockets. Neglect and abuse didn’t shatter him—he knows to bend, not break.

Yesterday, the street lady said, “You’re an old soul, born from a new soul not nurtured.” Her crazy hair whipped around her face like a bird’s nest gone rogue as she whispered her decree. “Happy birthday, tomorrow boy.”

Last Sunday, the priest said, “each soul is a garden.” The boy already knows this—he waters his own garden. Quietly. He may live on the street, but he can still hide at the back of the church and listen. He knows how to care for others when they need it, when they do not ask.

Each day, he breathes compassion for those adrift like him, to those less conscious of the evil he sees. “Lost, but not forgotten,” he whispers, yearning to cultivate souls. He cradles his innocence, long missing, and dreams with one eye open as he waits for rain.

Tomorrow, he will continue to grow alone. His clothes are ashen, but inside, he paints himself bright with dreams dripping with words learned from discarded dumpster-books with torn covers. He will continue to breathe his own garden until it is ready.

One day, once fully grown, it will be knowledge, shored upon empathy and forgiveness, that will be his weapon—cradled by his determination to escape the shadows. For now, he is cloaked in strength and quiet. “Bend, not break,” he tells himself, lifting his face to the clouds.

Someday, he will teach others his secret.