The Garden Gnome Who Saw Everything

My name is Reginald, and I am a garden gnome. I have stood beside the petunias for eleven years, and in that time I have seen things. Oh, the things I have seen. Nobody suspects the gnome. That is our great advantage, and our terrible burden.

Take the compost incident, which the family still calls only "the incident." The father believed he could build a compost bin in an afternoon. I knew — I KNEW — the moment he chose that corner of the yard, that it would end in tears and a garden hose. It did. I said nothing. Gnomes cannot say anything. This is the tragedy of my existence.

I have watched the father fall into the pond twice. The first time was an accident. The second, I maintain to this day, was showing off — demonstrating the sturdiness of the new stepping stones to the neighbor. The stones were not sturdy. I would have warned him, had I a mouth that moved, or any means of communication whatsoever. I could only watch, my painted expression frozen in what I like to think is sympathy but is probably just how I was manufactured.

Then there was the Great Raccoon Heist. Three in the morning. A raccoon of considerable size and no moral character emptied the bird feeder and took, inexplicably, one gardening glove. Come morning the family blamed each other — "Did you leave the feeder open?" "Did YOU?" — while I stood there holding the truth. The raccoon made eye contact on his way out. He winked. I have never forgiven him.

The children tell me their secrets, which I keep faithfully, because what choice do I have. Little Ana once confessed she'd watered the plastic flowers for a week, thinking they were real. Her secret is safe in my ceramic heart.

I have witnessed birthday parties, arguments, reconciliations, one marriage proposal by the tomatoes — she said yes, it was lovely — and roughly four thousand instances of someone declaring "I'll deal with the weeds this weekend" and not dealing with the weeds that weekend.

I judge them, of course. But I judge them the way you judge a family you love: gently, patiently, knowing they'd be lost without you standing watch beside the petunias. Someday, perhaps, I will be able to speak, and I will tell them everything. It will take several hours. They will be horrified.