“Grandma, where are you?” I said as I pounded on my grandmother’s door. “I thought you said you were home.”

“Dear, I am home. I’m in the garden.” Grandma replies on the phone.

“Garden? What garden?” Is Grandma’s dementia acting up again? She doesn’t have a garden. She barely has a backyard as it is.

Just then, the door opened and there my grandmother stood, specks of soil dotted her sweater and jeans while her boots and gloves were covered in mud. “Come on in, dear.”

“Grandma, you’re scaring me. You live in a townhouse, you don’t have a back garden. Are you forgetting again?”

“Just follow me, won’t you? I can’t wait to show you all the beautiful blossoms from the fruit trees.”

“I’ll try to keep an open mind.” I said as she slid the back door aside and there it stood in the center of small confined outdoor patio was a stone arch. I stared at it, bewildered. All I could see was the white fence on the other side of the arch. “Uh, Grandma? What is this?”

“The gateway to my garden.” Grandma grabbed my hand and pulled me into the arch.

“Grand…” I found myself at lost for words because the white fence I saw a moment ago was no longer before me. Instead, before me was a magical garden.

#writephoto

Open – Image by KL Caley