My uncle had a garden

 

My uncle had a garden. He was an old and ailing man, so he never weeded it, planted anything in it, or watered any plants, but he had a garden. And that was probably what mattered most, because he told everyone he knew almost exclusively about it. Naturally, he embellished his explanations and created exciting descriptions. He spoke of incredible flowers, of bicolored and tricolored leaves, of inflorescences shimmering in every shade in the sun, of plants that human eyes could not see. He spoke of trees that shaded tired eyes and bodies, whose crowns, spreading out into the sky, let in soaring streaks of light, singing with birdsong. He described butterflies dancing amidst the chirping of light and shade—and the garden outshone their hues.

My uncle loved to fantasize, and everyone knew it, though no one said it out loud. In reality, among the weeds that had been growing there for years, you could find here and there wild wildflowers, the kind that dotted the edges of the paths, and the trees were huge, clumsy, old, and bent in all directions by their senile disease. Uncle clearly didn't like them, or was having some sort of delusion or hallucination. No one knew, and no one dared to ask.

And so the famous garden grew, simple in its wildness and still alive in the hearts of people. They came from all directions to see Uncle's famed wonder. Instead, they found only a patch of weedy, uncultivated land. They would then ask Uncle if they hadn't mistaken the house, if this was really the garden. Uncle remained silent. He answered only one question: "Where is the garden?" He would then go to the window and trace his finger across the pane, as if pointing to some nonexistent butterfly, or tap his forehead. I guess my uncle believed what he was saying. But as he grew older, this expression came with increasing difficulty. This didn't discourage him. He continued to speak, recounting fragments of the garden, painting with words the numerous gates, the clear streams and fountains, the hedges, the lush apple trees, the trees full of juicy lemons, the air brimming with sunshine. And people still believed and came, only to discover that there was nothing there, that my uncle was some kind of madman, a lonely man with his own utopia. And no one saw the garden.

Until slowly, people stopped believing, stopped coming, and my uncle and his colorful stories were forgotten. And the plants grew, and still no one cared for them. Day by day, my uncle bent lower and lower on his cane, his head almost touching the ground. His garden grew all over the house, its windows jutting inward, and soon the door was overgrown, unopened for years. I never saw my uncle again. People said he now grew his garden somewhere closer to the sun, as colorful as his stories.

Soon they stopped talking.