She walked this path every morning.
The air was cool, but the sun was on its way. He stood back, partly hidden by the flowering bushes. He was good at waiting. She would be here soon. He knew how much she loved the flowers. She would come with watering can, stopping occasionally to wet the brightly coloured petals.
This was her morning habit, her ritual. At the house, a door sounded. He felt the thrill. The garden looked particularly beautiful in spring. She would be happy and excited when she saw the blossoms this morning, passionate even. Spring is a passionate season. If only he could bring himself to approach her; to tell her how much he appreciated the love and devotion she pours out, along with the gentle sprinkling of water.
Suddenly, she appears, dressed in a woolly robe and slippers, carrying a heavy can. He looked on in admiration as she slowly made her way beside the flower bed, stopping occasionally to examine a blossom. She used a fingertip to move it gently from side to side. She moved on, seeing nothing but the colours, the stems, the soil, the shiny beads rolling off petals. As always, she paused at the clematis, her favourites. He knew this from experience. He loved the way she whispered to the flowers as the can tipped. His heart swelled as he saw the adoring smile light up her face. She straitens and comes closer. Moments later, she glides by without noticing him.
It was at times like these that being a garden gnome wasn’t at all easy.