Once upon a time, there was an artist who hated to paint. In the house to the left of the artist was a writer who hated to write, and next to his house was a musician who hated playing instruments. These three lived on Avenue Street in a city called Grouping of Buildings. Every weekday the three would arise in the morning and do what they hated most. The artist would begin by laboriously cleaning her brushes from yesterday, the writer would sharpen his pencils, and the musician would tune their instruments. By 8:00 o’clock each day they would begin their work. By 12:00 o’clock they would gather for sandwiches and tea, and grumble about what each of them had completed in the morning. They spent their days as such, and by the time the weekend came, they were glad not to do their tasks and instead enjoyed each other’s company and going to the farmer’s market on Sundays.

This specific Sunday, the three woke up and found someone had inhabited the house to the left of the musician. When they sought to stop by on their way to the market and introduce themselves, they found the garden of the house had been entirely refurbished. It had beautiful bushes of lavender, a small tomato garden, and stalks of sunflowers peeking from behind a newly painted picket fence. The three were struck with such wonder that they stood gaping in front of the lawn when the new neighbor opened the door. She introduced herself as the gardener who loved to garden. Stunned by the beauty of her work, it was not until a few minutes had passed that the three introduced themselves too and found that the gardener was from Fewer Buildings In A Grouping, a very small town just West of the city. Cautious of their new neighbors’ odd love of her work, they did not chat long and continued on to the farmer’s market. Once they were there, the artist bought a bough of lavender, the writer bought tomatoes, and the musician bought a bouquet of sunflowers.

When Monday’s sun rose into the sky, the artist felt an odd feeling within his hands. They pushed the artist out of bed and forced him to walk to his easel and take a brush to it. In his heart, the artist felt a comfortable warmth, as his hands sought to make something beautiful. In the house to the left, the new sun was shining onto the writer with a smile on her face. She felt a story bubbling under her skin, and as she wrote she felt the sun shine brighter. In the house to her left, the musician found themself dancing as they played the violin, while the sun’s rays beamed on their dashing feet.

When the three gathered at noon for sandwiches and tea, they shared their joyful mornings with the others, confused as to what had occurred. After much deliberation, they thought it best to ask the gardener, who might have a better inkling of the blissful events. However, when they arrived at her house, they saw her beautiful garden had withered, its once-green plants scorched into a char that was black as beetles. The gardener herself was found sitting on the ground in the middle of the ashes, grieving the loss of her work. Explaining what had happened she said the sun had shone so brightly this morning that it had killed her plants. The three were stunned again, for they all recalled how brightly the sun had shone for them that morning and knew what had happened. The writer, capable of putting her thoughts into words, spoke: “We had found what we loved this morning because we saw that you could love what you do and that you can create something beautiful. The sun had seen us so happy, and its rays grew in strength.” The gardener began to sob, but the writer did not know what more to say, for the artist and musician had disappeared. In silence, she watched as her neighbor cried until her friends appeared back at her side, carrying what they had purchased yesterday. They brought to the gardener a bough of lavender, a basket of tomatoes, and a bouquet of sunflowers. The writer understood, and spoke again: “We will help you replant what you have lost.”

– Helena Glover Weiss