A map reveals the truth about the botanical garden. It was planned meticulously. The planners labored over the construction. They asked certain questions. Which plants prefer one another? Why this flower and not that one? What backdrop will most reveal the garden’s splendor? One section was for roses. Another for tulips. One area was modeled after an 18thcentury English garden. One part was designed to replicate a Zen Japanese enclosure. The map showed how the pieces of the garden fit together perfectly like puzzle pieces.

There were pathways throughout so that no one needed to accidently tread on the flowers. The paths were of packed dirt, fringed with tiny wire fences, easy to step over but no one did. Beautifully designed fountains poured forth water and the babbling sound they gave off was calming and magnificent. People arrived from various distant locations. They parked their cars on the outskirts of the gardens and wandered throughout the rows, pointing and remarking.

Gardeners wandered up and down the rows, clad in green. They wore rubber shoes, and they were the only ones who sometimes stepped off of the paths. The gardeners lifted stems that needed tending, snipped leaves from plants that required pruning, and poured carefully calibrated liquid into certain divots holding certain seeds so that next year’s garden would be more splendid than today’s.

Four city streets framed the garden. Visitors parked their cars on the streets and walked to the garden over cracked asphalt. In the cracks of the streets there was packed dirt, riddled with pebbles and other debris from the traffic. There was also stubbled greenery. Small plants grew here and there amidst the traffic. Little yellow flowers peeped their heads above the black tar. The cracks were not planned or curated. No city official charted their course. They simply appeared, a byproduct of heavy road usage.

The plants in the cracks were not planted, at least not by people. They were not wanted. No gardener tended to them. Cars drove over them. People walked by them without noticing. Those crack plants had a harder time of it.

But once I noticed them I could not stop noticing.

Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addition) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete