How Does Your Garden Grow?

My grandmother was an odd fish. Eccentric, I think you would call it. She was rich enough that nobody would have called her crazy. When she took an idea into her head, though, we went along with it. That day was no different. Every month, we went, dutifully, to visit with her at the old house. She lived in a tiny part of it, where the servants quarters had been. The rest had been empty for as long as I could remember, unsafe and crumbling. That day, she stood up suddenly, and announced that she wanted to give us the tour.

Following her around the old house, she swept me along on a tide of stories. She was flooded with them. Then she took us out to the grounds. Wandering through the old walks, still kept nice by a friendly gardeners club who just couldn’t bear to see the old place overgrown, she led us to a part of the garden where I’d never been, gestured proudly through a rose-covered archway and let us walk through.

There was a ballroom growing in the garden. I can’t explain how I knew. It was carpeted with green, and I could tell that the grass would give way to elegant wooden floors in a month or so, provided it got enough sun and rain. There were chairs blooming out of the earth, starting to cover themselves with a foliage of velvet. Windows branched upwards, trained carefully around a wooden framework.

I looked at my grandmother, a question in my expression. She merely winked, picked up an old watering can, and wandered around the room, feeding it. My siblings wandered off, after a while. I sat on one of the green and growing chairs in wonderment. When she had finished watering, my grandmother showed me how it all worked.

She left me the house, and the garden. It was too much for her to get round, but I water it carefully. And there’s a whole wing for me to live in, now.

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Writer of mainly spec-fic, I also play roleplaying games, particularly enjoying the shared storytelling.

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