Read by Matilda Longbottom

The yard was a wild expanse, an untamed canvas of green, encircled by thorny brambles that whispered secrets on the wind. It was October, and the rains had come, cloaking the land in a veil of mist. We had just moved to a house on a hillside, and from the echoes of childhood dreams, I began to weave an old-world English cottage garden into existence.

As Spring arrived and the rains receded, the garden began to awaken. Day by day, we toiled and planted, and like a story unfolding, it grew—slowly at first, then with a burst of life. The veggies were fenced in, protected from wandering spirits, and an arbor was raised for honeysuckle to twine, surrounded by roses that seemed to bloom from a fairy’s touch. I battled the wild berries, chopping and hacking, their thorny grip no match for my resolve. We hauled in lumber and built raised beds where lettuce, onions, and a bounty of tomatoes now flourish. Bush beans and pole beans spiraled skyward, while potatoes rooted deeply into the earth, and strawberries blushed, waiting to be adorned with cream.

For blossoms that would fill the air with sweet perfume, I scattered seeds with abandon, more liberally than Johnny Appleseed himself. Wild lilies swayed in the breeze, lilacs whispered of forgotten loves, and every flower added a note to the garden’s fragrant symphony. Friends brought their seeds, offering cuttings with tales of gardens past, and scavenged roses found new life in the rich soil.

I yearned for a pond, a mirror to reflect the sky’s ever-changing moods. So, I began to dig, filling the hollow with cool, clear water and stocking it with goldfish from the corner shop. We spent countless Summer hours wading through rivers, searching for just the right stones to frame the edges, each rock a piece of the puzzle that would become our pond.

Now we sit by the water’s edge, sipping coffee and nibbling bagels in the morning light, as birds serenade us and bees dance on dahlia blossoms. I lounge on the deck, too content to move, drinking in the garden’s beauty—the vibrant colors, the symphony of sounds. Hummingbirds flit from bloom to bloom, birds splash in the birdbath, and finches playfully argue among the cosmos. Dragonflies hover and dart across the water’s surface, where the goldfish flash like streaks of sunlight.

This is my garden, my sanctuary. But there is a secret I must share—it’s the fairy who dwells by the pond, near the water’s edge. She is a shy creature, rarely seen, but if you tread softly on Summer mornings, you might catch a glimpse of her at work. She folds her wings gently as she nestles beneath the ferns, dusting each blossom with her magical fairy dust. I know, in my mind, that I could tend this garden without her, but it would not be the same. Without her, there would be no enchantment, no tender love or nurturing care. The magic she brings is woven into every petal, every leaf—a gift from her heart to mine. ❖

About the Author: Valerie Da-Silva Curtiss, a transplant from England now residing in Montana, has traversed the U.S. extensively in her career as a medical transcriptionist and quality assurance editor. She’s lent her editorial talents to publications like “The Headset” and “The Grapevine Press,” while also sharing her gardening expertise in “The Whole Shebang.” Her first book, “You Can’t Have Too Many Boston Terriers,” is available on Amazon. Now retired, she spends her days immersed in painting, gardening, writing, and dabbling in photography.