The plant awoke immediately, feeling pressure on its leaves and then a sharp pang of pain. It winced yet to no avail the pain continued. A woman was hissing and pulling at it with all her might. The weed didn’t know if it was out of frustration or a struggle to tug harder. The uninvited visitor was huffing and cursing about gorgeous petunias, lovely daffodils, and nasty weeds. The weed had been growing in those soils for years, and now some random lady was attempting to pluck it right out.
When the sun rose to its usual position at the top of the clear sky, the woman triumphantly patted herself on the back and stuffed whatever she had ripped out of the weed into a plastic bag. Of course, she hadn’t done as good a job as she had deceived herself into believing; the weed was still resting beneath the same soils where it had formed its home, its roots running thick and deep. His spirit, however, had not managed to make it out so strong.
The same, tedious cycle continued time and time again. The woman was stubborn, and the weed was even more so. The weed grew accustomed to the feeling of gloved hands pulling at it, the owner of said hands never comprehending that the weed truly laid in its roots, not its leaves. In contrast, the woman lavished attention on her flowers, watering them, purchasing expensive soils, and talking to them on a daily basis. The weed couldn’t help but feel a little envious.
The woman eventually stopped going out into the garden. The weed hoped she had simply given up attempting to remove it. But when her beloved flowers began to wilt one by one, the weed realized there must have been more to her sudden absence.
The seasons flew by and the weed was left alone in its garden once again. It was a cold winter night when the fox first slid into the garden, tensely looking around for any sign of humans. Finding it was alone in the garden the fox breathed a sigh of relief and began sniffing around. The weed wasn’t bothered by the sudden arrival as it posed no harm. It closed its eyes and listened to the ongoing blizzard’s sounds, still unfazed as the fox curled up in the opposite corner of the garden. The fox would leave in the morning and return in the evening. The weed had grown used to its presence and took solace in it. This went on for months, until the nights got warmer.
Instead of his usual spot, the fox chose to lie close to the weed one day. The weed stared intently, seemingly demanding an answer.
“I love you.”
The weed looked confused, what had the fox just uttered?
Please, the weed thought, this animal must have gone mad. I’ve always been torn, pulled at, and plucked out. I’m an ugly ugly weed, why should anyone love me? I ruin their gardens, their purple petunias and their yellow daffodils. I should be honest with myself it is not a question of why, how could anyone possibly love me?
So the weed refused to believe anything out the mouth of the fox and remained silent. But a tea of hope had begun to steep in the depths of its heart.
“So?” the fox awaited an answer.
“Why?”
I’m not as colorful as they are, not as gentle or pretty. The weed pondered. The fox responded softly, as if it had read its mind.
“I can see you’ve endured a lot, you must be so strong. To be up and standing, despite being wounded, even when no one else could. Isn’t that reason enough to love you?”