The community garden was a quilt of green—rows of okra, collard greens, sweet potatoes, and sunflowers towering like sentinels. Every Saturday, long benches appeared under the oak tree at the center, and neighbors came bearing tools, laughter, and coolers of sorrel punch.
This morning, the circle formed quickly.
Tia arrived first, her hair in medium-strength box braids tipped with mahogany beads that clinked softly when she stooped to prune a pepper plant. Next came Marcus, his short coils trimmed neatly, wearing a bandana that peeked out beneath a baseball cap. He carried a watering can and a stool so he could reach the squash vines without bending his back.
A little farther on, Chantelle and Simone shared a folding bench. Chantelle’s hair was in chunky two-strand twists piled high in a bun; Simone’s tight finger coils framed her face like a halo. They passed around a jar of lavender balm, rubbing it into each other’s hands between seed packets and sweet talk.
Grandpa Joe shuffled in last, his temples streaked silver, hair cut close enough that the sun warmed his scalp like fresh biscuits. He carried a basket of fresh eggs and hummed an old hymn as he laid down his basket beside the wooden planter box.
They settled into a gentle rhythm—Marcus watered, Tia tied tomato stems to stakes with strips of fabric, Chantelle and Simone spaced out marigold seedlings to keep bugs away. Grandpa Joe showed the little ones how to scoop compost, teaching them that good soil meant strong roots.
As they worked, the talk drifted from plant tips to life tips.
“Remember,” Grandpa Joe said, patting a child’s head, “your crown grows better with care.”
Chantelle laughed. “We know, Pops. We oil it, brush it, love it.”
He winked. “And don’t let nobody make you think otherwise.”
When the sun climbed high and the heat pressed on their shoulders, they took a break under the oak. A table appeared as if by magic—plates of corn pone, bowls of kale salad, mason jars of sweet iced ginger tea. Each person passed dishes around, the conversation as nourishing as the food.
Tia twisted off one braid and draped it over her shoulder to cool. Marcus peeled off his bandana, revealing the sheen of scalp and tightly coiled hair. Simone ran her fingers through Chantelle’s bun, pulling out a stray twist to rearrange it just so. Grandpa Joe lifted his hat to wipe his brow, and someone offered to refill his tea.
They ate slowly, savoring each bite and each other’s company. No one worried about bent edges or flattened curls—here, every style was celebrated like a blooming sunflower. Every texture was a medal of patience, pride, and history.
As afternoon light filtered through the leaves, they returned to work—planting snap peas, staking okra, clearing weeds. The garden grew richer with every pair of hands, every shared laugh, and every story passed from one generation to the next.
By the time they packed up their tools, the beds were full, the benches empty, and the circle of friends and family moved on—taller, closer, and more rooted than when they came.
Because in this garden, acceptance wasn’t something you asked for.
It was what you grew together.
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