The Dreamer of Dreams

By Peter Bowden


The old man sat at the edge of the garden, knees creaking as he knelt beside the sunflowers. He had planted them with his grandson in the spring, their fingers in the soil, laughing at worms and marveling at the first sprouts. The boy was gone now, back to the city and school and glowing screens. But the sunflowers stood tall, golden heads tilted toward heaven, as if listening to music only the faithful could hear.

At night, when the house was quiet and the dog asleep at his feet, he would stare at the stars through the cracked pane of the porch window. He remembered things the world seemed to have forgotten—how wishes were made on falling stars, how poems were whispered to moonlight, how children once believed that dreams could build bridges across oceans and time. He still believed. Not in the loud way of youth, but in the soft certainty of someone who had seen dreams grow roots.

We are the dreamers of dreams, he thought, as the wind moved through the trees like a lullaby. We are the ones who remember what the world forgets. And if we hold on—gently, firmly, the way one holds a hand or a promise—then the dreams will hold us back. Back from despair. Back to wonder. And back to the garden, where something always grows.


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