It’s just a vegetable garden. And a small one at that. Several leafy plants are growing from the rocky soil, reaching out of the ground to get as much sunlight as possible. Pots of herbs and tiny sprouts line the outside of the garden. A single red rose has bloomed amongst all the green. There’s really nothing special about this tiny plot of land.
But if you only knew what it took to create it. It’s not the time the owner spent tending the soil or planting the seeds, but rather the time the owner spent wandering aimlessly without a home, without hope. It’s not that she planted the vegetables just right so they can get enough sun, it’s that she lived without a roof over her head for so long that the clear night sky was no longer beautiful. The majority of her life lived in slavery, and her display of freedom is a vegetable garden.
When I speak to the owner, I begin to wonder about her. How does she still know how to smile when her joy was stolen from her and placed for sale? When did the sunrise become beautiful to her again? What did it feel like to have her metaphorical shackles removed after they’d worn themselves into her wrists? How is it that I can hardly tell they were there in the first place? Joy shines from her like a single red rose blooming amongst the green. I don’t know how she’s managed to heal. All I know is that I see freedom, and it’s a vegetable garden.