The Garden Robbery

3 May

They came in the middle of the night with big Maglite flashlights, like the one’s cops use. I heard them talking through the open window. Take all of it, one guy said. The moon was new, so all I could see were the flashlights moving frantically around the garden. Before I could make it outside, they were gone.

They took all the plants. The cucumbers, the chard, the sunflowers, the cosmos, all dug up with nothing but dirt holes left behind. You’d never know which plants were planted where. I had just planted everything that morning. The plants were still babies. Why? Why would someone take my babies?

The next night, they came into the house with knives. Give us all your plants, one guy said, standing above my bed, waking me from a dream of blooming Bachelor Buttons. I have nothing left, I said. He sighed like a teenager, like I really disappointed him this time, and went outside. I heard them rumbling around the garden, but I wasn’t worried about it. What else could they take? There really was nothing left. I fell back asleep and dreamed about eating hot-from-the-sun tomatoes right off the vine.

In the morning, I remembered the thieves. I went to to the garden and found it gone. They took the dirt, the beds, the whole yard. They didn’t even leave holes.


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