The day I saw David again, I almost turned away. A bright sunny day was over the little town square. The scent of grass and dust was in the air. I came here to forget about my past. But he was there coming at me with a shovel on his shoulder to the community garden. His face had aged, but I knew him.
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Three years had passed since I expelled him. Three years since my anger ruined a boy’s future. Back then, David was a bright but restless student. He was late to class, broke rules, and tested my patience. The day I caught him with a stolen exam paper, I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t listen. I called the principal, and he was expelled.
I told myself I had done the right thing. But at night, guilt whispered to me. I knew I had judged too quickly. Soon after, I left town and came here. I kept teaching, but I stayed distant.
Last winter, the school principal asked me to lead a new community garden. He said it would bring people together. I agreed. I hoped it might heal something inside me.
Now David stood at the garden gate. He noticed me right away. For a moment, we said nothing. Bees buzzed. The gate creaked. Finally, he nodded. “Miss Ada.”
“David,” I said quietly.
He set his shovel down near an empty bed. “They said you needed volunteers.”
“Yes,” I replied.
On the first day, we carried out the task without a word. The other volunteers could be heard laughing and joking while they sowed the seeds. David and I were engrossed in antiseptic activity as we pulled out the weeds together. As I was working, my hands were shaking. The earth had stuck to my fingers the way faded memories do.
By day three, he had to say something. "Is it you who picked this town?"
“Yes.”
“Far from home,” he said.
“Yes,” I answered again.
“I guess we both needed distance.”
He spoke the truth, which was why his words hurt me so much. I gazed at him. He was not the same. The cockiness were not there anymore. He looked like he had matured and was calmer. When we watered the seedlings as the sun was setting and the sky was glowing orange, he supported himself on his shovel and said,
“Do you remember when you kicked me out?”
“I remember,” I whispered. “I was angry. I didn’t listen.”
His eyes met mine. “I didn’t steal the exam.”
Everything appeared to stop for a moment. I did not sense any rage in his eyes but rather sorrow.
"I have never known," I replied, with a burnt feeling in my throat, "I'm sorry, David."
He turned his gaze to the lines of plants. "I got really sad. People assumed I stole. My mum was heartbroken. I ran away because I was so shy to confront people."
Tears filled my eyes. “I can’t undo it. But I want to make things right.”
He nodded but said nothing more.
Weeks passed. We worked together every day. The garden changed. Shoots of green broke through the soil. Flowers began to bloom. Children came to help, their laughter filling the air.
One afternoon, while planting tomatoes, David spoke again. He told me about the years away—moving from job to job, trying to survive. “I was careless before,” he said. “I spent time with the wrong people. But that day, I wasn’t guilty. I wish you had asked me why I had that paper.”
“Why did you?” I asked.
He sighed. “Chike slipped it into my bag. He was cheating and didn’t want to be caught. I didn’t even know it was there until you found it.”
The truth sank in. My anger back then had blinded me.
Week by week, the garden kept on getting more and more. More and more people frequented the garden it was no longer only a place for work but also for talking and sharing food. David turned into a silent leader. He instructed the kids how to plant in straight rows and nurture the seedlings.
It was a Saturday evening when the sun was shining over the garden with its golden rays. David came over to me with a small clay pot which contained a small sprout.
“For you,” he said. “It’s a second chance rose.”
I looked at him, surprised.
“My mother used to grow them,” he said. “They’re tough. Even if you cut them down or neglect them, they bloom again.”
I held the pot close. My eyes burned with tears. “Thank you.”
So that night, I was outside on my porch enjoying the moonlight. The little rose was next to me. I reflected on how rage had dominated me. I considered the second chance that was by me in the garden. Forgiveness had deeply settled in, where I had not even thought it.
By the middle of summer, the garden was full of colors. Sunflowers grew tall. Marigolds were vibrant. On market day, the people came to walk through the rows. Music could be heard from a little radio. Kids were running in the space between the stalks of corn.
I stood under the mango tree and watched David laugh with the kids. The memory of that classroom day was still there, but it no longer defined us.
He caught my eye and walked over, wiping dirt from his hands.
“We did well, Miss Ada,” he said.
“We did,” I said.
He gestured to a group of elderly women that were by the okra plants. “According to them, the garden is what saved the town.”
“Likely,” I answered with a slight grin. “However, it was the first time that it saved me.”
I suppose it was my first time in years that I felt lifted up.
Seven days later, a severe storm passed through the area. The sunflowers were bent with the strong wind and heavy rain. Some plants had been broken at the dawn, but the majority of them were still standing and looked green and wet under the blue sky.
As we fixed the fences and propped up the fallen stems, David said quietly, “Life can knock you down. But if your roots are deep, you stand again.”
I nodded, thinking of us two people hurt by anger and pride, now growing again.
The garden had transformed into a refuge. Time had flown by. People used to spend their Sundays there and the mango tree's shade was very popular for sharing meals. They ate, smiled, and shared stories. Kids were taught the seed planting and nurturing skills.
I saw how David operated in some situations. The sun was playing on his hair. His movements were calm and confident. For the garden that I was thankful for, and also for the lovely opportunity that forgiveness had given us, not only for the garden.
I learned one thing during that time. Forgiveness will not wipe out the history with the offender. It will not overlook that the hurt has never been experienced. But it allows room for the future to expand. The act of forgiving is comparable to a garden. It requires time and effort. You continue to give water, remove weeds, and anticipate. Then, at a certain point, you find that the stage for the display of beauty has been set.
At sunset, whenever I am by the garden, I see children playing, and I can hear the laughter and the movement of the leaves. They are unaware of our past. They don’t know the incident in the classroom that has had such an impact on us.
The only thing that those people can find in life is a place filled with colors and hope.
That, in my opinion, is the most important thing. The garden of second chances is the evidence that letting go of the past can happen in any place.