Despite the Old Man’s assumptions, the Garlic knows more than he thinks.

​

The cloves can tell it’s barely dawn. The slate-gray static of early morning fills the open trunk of the van, and the grass is yawning and stretching itself across the fields. When the Man drops the burlap sack of last year’s best Garlic into the trunk on top of the other bags, the heavy white fists hitting the car floor softly, he is sluggish, his eyes underlined by sleep. 

​

He closes the trunk. The heavy slam of the door is a gunshot in the quiet morning stillness, and it startles drowsy birds in nearby trees. The Old Man climbs heavily into the driver’s seat, and with the low sputtering and groaning of the awakening engine, he drives off.

​

The drive to the community garden is not long. It had seemed that way, last season, when the Garlic was separated from the rest of the harvest and sequestered away in this same burlap sack. The cloves had been confused, upset, distraught. Were they not good enough to be produce? Not big enough to be valuable? Had they not grown well—large and healthy, with soft, aromatic cloves arranged in clusters reminiscent of flower buds, ensconced first in the thin membranes separating the cloves and then in the papery skin that protected them from the soil? 

​

What made them different from the other Garlic that were piled high in baskets or stuffed in pockets, or donated to the food bank? What made them less worthy of being peeled and eaten? Did they not deserve to be roasted in the oven, or sautéed until fragrant, or finely minced and sprinkled over some dish? 

​

Oh, how the Garlic had wept then, foolishly, unaware of its future! In the Old Man’s trunk, it had cried out for its brethren, feeling lost and forgotten, ripped from the one home it had known until then. How stupid it was to assume it was unwanted when, in truth, the Old Man had hand-selected these heads for their size and quality to be the fathers of the next season’s garden! 

​

This understanding brought them pride; they had gathered their silvery wrappings around themselves in dignity and self-importance, knowing the next harvest would be desolate without them. 

​

The Old Man takes a sharp turn then, jostling the contents of his trunk. The heads of Garlic are tossed unceremoniously from their original spot, spilling out of their burlap sack and rolling onto the floor. 

​

What disgrace! What disrespect! they sniff haughtily, To be so careless with such precious produce such as us! As if you’d have a garden without Garlic!

​

“Sorry,” the Old Man grunts out. For a moment, the Garlic is mollified—but then it occurs to them that the Old Man had never spoken to them before. Until today, they coexisted in the silence of mutual respect, nodding at one another when meeting eyes in the storage shed. Surely he would not suddenly begin to converse with them now?

​

“Been a while since I came out here,” the Old Man continues, “I’m getting a little too old for it, see? I’ve run the community garden for the past twenty years, but I might have to pass along the torch this season. My old back can’t take the labor anymore.” Then he guffaws, letting out a rough, coughing laugh. “Funny that, ain’t it? Bein’ old and broken down, and still being able to do what I did to ya? I guess we surprise ourselves sometimes.”

​

At this point, it’s clear the Garlic is not the subject of the Old Man’s one-sided conversation. The realization is a huge blow to their ego, but the sharp cut of the snub is a secondary concern to the burning curiosity that suddenly overtakes them. As the Old Man takes another turn along the winding country road, the heads roll around again, scuttling across the trunk floor. Little slivers of papery white covering trail behind them as they roll.

​

One Garlic head bumps into the other bag in the trunk. It’s another burlap sack, much like their own, but bigger and significantly heavier. This, now, is curious; Garlic is the only thing the Old Man plants this time of year, in early October. Garlic is resourceful. Intelligent. Stronger than the most fearful gusts of Winter, the harshest frost, the coldest nights. Garlic can stay dormant in the ground over Winter, waiting patiently for the sun to rise once more, so they too can begin to germinate and grow in Spring. This makes it better than all the other fruits and vegetables and herbs planted in the garden. This makes it the best plant on Earth.

​

The van lurches to the side on another turn. The large burlap sack shifts and its contents begin to slowly slide from the gap in the top, loosened slightly during the ride. Something pale and soft pokes out of the dirt-stained bag first, followed by a shroud of auburn roots. The Old Man laughs again. 

​

“You know, I’d seen you in the garden before. That’s why I chose you. You came every Sunday to do volunteering work with all those other little teenyboppers from your high school. And I would watch your knees go blotchy and muddy from the soil and the nape of your neck grow sweaty from the work and I’d think: John, that’s the one. If you’re ever gonna do it, if you’re ever gonna give in, it’s gotta be that one.”

​

The Garlic bristles at this; surely there is no other plant in the garden as beautiful as it! No other plant has its milky, mother of pearly hue, the delicate shine of its wrapping, the gentle curve of its stem! Huffing, the heads roll closer to the strange foreign plant. It simply can not be as beautiful as us!

​

The stranger’s roots are knotted and caked in dirt. The Garlic huffs. It would never be so messy. But it is pale underneath, smooth and blemish-free, much like itself. Intrigued, the heads roll closer.

​

“Last night was such a coincidence. It was so perfect. You were so alone, and it had gotten so dark. . .  And of course you trusted me. The little old man who runs the charity garden with the Santa Claus belly and the grandkids in town. . .  And when I gave you a ride, you didn’t even realize we were going the wrong way until I pulled over.”

​

The strange plant slips out of its burlap sack a little farther. The Garlic can see the strange contours of its pale, milky flesh, dark brown in some places, pale pink and puckered in another. It is larger than the Garlic had anticipated and cold to the touch. 

​

There is something unsightly about its size. Garlic is the perfect size: it fits just right within the Old Man’s palm, his broad fingers settling into the contours of its grooves. This plant, this strange otherworldly plant, does not look as though it could easily rest beneath the soil. Surely it wouldn’t last the Winter. Already it is barely holding its shape, limp and weak and flopped on the ground. Deftly, the Garlic gathers its white skirts in pride. The more it learns about this strange other plant, the surer it becomes of its superiority.

​

“I’ll cherish last night for the rest of my life, you know?” the Old Man says, pulling into the community center’s parking lot. Now, the sun is just barely rising, coloring the world in a softer, lighter gray shot through with beams of white peering just above the horizon. In the trunk, the Garlic preens under the delicate lighting. 

​

“I wish I could keep some sort of trophy to remind me of you. I thought about it all night, you know? A lock of hair. A piece of cloth. A finger or toe. Something to always keep a piece of you with me. But then I realized . . . ” the van rolls to a stop. “I can keep all of you. All I need to do is plant you.”

​

When the Old Man gets out and opens the trunk, the Garlic rejoices. Dawn light spills in and illuminates it in the beauty of the Heavens, and its soft white clothing gleams like silk. The Old Man will reach out for the Garlic, touch them, caress their soft outer shells. Soon, they will be the stars of his garden! Soon, they will be loved!

​

The Old Man scoffs in displeasure. “Damn it! Of course the damn garlic spilled,” he grumbles, brushing heads to the side as he reaches into the trunk. Bypassing them entirely, the Old Man reaches for a shovel and grabs the other burlap sack.

​

What agony! To be overlooked like this! To be scorned and forgotten, to be denied the attention of an adoring gardener when one has lived one’s whole life with the knowledge that one is an incredible star denied its platform! The Garlic is a far better plant than any large, floppy, pale plant! The Garlic surpasses any plant in beauty, in usefulness, in talent!

​

In the distance, the Old Man’s shovel hits the ground with a soft crunch of dirt. The Garlic, abandoned, seethes. It will have its spotlight. It will have its revenge. The Old Man will see. When it blooms this season, it resolves to bloom red.