A rotten tomato fell out of Marcus’s hand. He stood in front of his compost pile. Or where his compost pile should be. Usually, his ten-year-old son, Tom, was tasked with taking out the kitchen scraps. Marcus hadn’t seen the compost corner in weeks.

Now, big sunflowers were growing from the mountain of kitchen garbage, and pumpkin vines with yellow trumpet blossoms covered it. Coconut shells served as tiny houses for mice (or fairies) and little footpaths were made from walnut shells.

“You built a garden on a dump,” he said, shaking his head with a smile.

Tom picked the tomato up from the ground and buried it in the compost pile. His elephant watering can showered the newly planted seed while he hummed a tune to himself. Marcus watched him for a while, then sighed and said,

“You know we have to turn the compost over soon? Mix the earth up so all the layers can mingle?”

Tom’s jaw dropped. His eyes turned watery.

“I’m kidding. We can just start a new compost. I’d never destroy your little kingdom.”