Clank! The heavy iron bolt slid back.  And, with a single shove of his massive shoulder, the ancient wrought-iron gate groaned and swung open.  It was still dark, and although he knew every inch of the old rock garden, every little nuance, every stone, the old gardener’s first steps along the pebbled walkway were taken carefully.  He manoeuvred into what he had previously calculated to be the best vantage point to witness the event, then sat and waited.  Confident in his work.  Dauntless in his pursuit of beauty.  Secure in his planning.  Others knew of his work, news of early success preceded him.  There had been quiet requests to join him on this special morning.  But no!  He could not, would not, share the moment with anyone.  It was his and his alone to savour, to taste like fine wine, to roll around in his mouth, its flavour bursting inside.

He sat very still.  The pre-dawn air cool against his damp brow.  The small hairs on his neck standing on end in anticipation.  Dawn was coming.  He prepared his senses, this first viewing would never happen again – the precise moment when all his flowers would bloom together for one brief moment in time.  He smiled outwardly, reminding himself that some things are never as good the second time, no matter how spectacular.  All the passion of a lifetime can never replace one’s first kiss.

The first rays of the newborn sun broke over the stone wall like a muted musket flash, swarming over the blanket of English ivy with an abrupt suddenness.  The vines, hardened by the harsh elements, were unrelenting in their mission to cover the old stone wall and did so in a rambling fashion, but lately, he noticed, they were responding to his delicate pruning.  He was pleased.

The old gardener continued to bask in the morning sun as it rose a little higher highlighting the bed of flowers he had so carefully nurtured these many months.  Colour burst from his three central pieces.  A single golden daffodil turned and faced into the morning sun followed quickly by the beautiful red rose, its simplistic designs the result of row upon row of intricately woven petals.  Finally the purple iris, a flower of such common beauty it was often overlooked, completed his triad.

A beautiful carpet of spring heather wound its way throughout the garden, its magical aroma filling the air.  Casually planted in a haphazard fashion to the sides were a breathtaking backdrop of wildflowers, including a brilliant splash of black-eyed susans, periwinkle, rusty fig, windflowers, and primrose.  To the right stood his unusual selenicereus or “night cactus”.  He was pleased to glimpse the flower before it died.  The “night cactus”, as its name indicates, blooms only in the privacy of darkness.  Toward 3pm the buds begin to swell and by 10pm its flower is fully open, but as morning nears the petals begin to fade, unable to endure that which gives all else life.  He was pleased it had at least survived long enough to flower with the others, even if just for a moment.

To the side of a huge granite rock his lovely orchid had survived yet another night.  Relief blended with delight.  Always worried his masterpiece of beauty would not be strong enough to stand alone.  Will it survive without him?  Did he want it to?

 Quite unexpectedly, he watched the liquid sunlight flow on, around, and through the old hickory tree standing with a quiet pride to his left, its foliage so striking in age that one barely noticed the small flowers woven through its branches, shedding its petals through the garden at random, casting its colours forever.  The only other tree in the garden, an olive, still bore fruit and gave shade to the young flowers.  The two old trees did not ravage the earth of its food, denying the younger shoots, but rather, they protected the garden giving it a sense of time.  He sensed they too were enjoying the moment.

The old gardener slowly drank in the scene before him.  He bowed his head to stare at the large dirty hands covered with honest dirt.  Powerful fingers had gently cropped the flowers, gently moulded and kneaded them toward their journey to perfection.  He felt pride, his work was done, he knew it was good.  He raised his eyes skyward seeking that elusive peace, always in sight yet always just out of reach.  It was at that moment, that single moment in time, a warm glow of understanding washed over him.  As long as his garden flourished part of him lived.  He felt clean.  He smiled once more, feeling immortal.