[ IP ] The old man of the forest

Before he retired, Robert would always come to work with a smile. He would prune his client ’ s gardens as happily as he played ball with his children. He nurtured the flowers and vegetables and fruit as lovingly as he did his own children. He would pour his heart into the plants, telling them stories and singing them nonsense rhymes. He always liked to hear the plants sing back the next morning, in their colour and vitality. He did this for many years, his smile never once fading. Onlookers might even find, once in a while, the garden smiling back at him. 
 
 One day his loving wife, his most beautiful flower, wilted away. He buried her in his garden, and left a single rose to mark her spot. Where other plants would wilt, this one stayed as red and vibrant as the day it had first bloomed. This single, solitary rose grew into the largest rosebush Robert had ever grown. 
 
 Not a single thorn grew on that rosebush. 
 
 Once his children had moved away, ready to thrive and pollinate in a different garden, Robert retired. He never once left the garden, though. He would go on expeditions in the forest behind his house, searching for increasingly exotic plants to add to his gardens. He would never let them feel out-of-place, though, building for them a spot in the garden among friendly neighbours. Robert made sure that all the plants were happy. 
 
 One day, Robert didn ’ t come to his garden. He didn ’ t come the next day either. One of his many children visited him that day, something his children did often, to find him, hands still covered in dirt from yesterdays pruning. 
 
 The next day, all his children, and their children, came to Roberts garden. By now, his garden encompassed the entire forest, full of the greenest greens and the and flowerbeds one could sleep in, dotted with all kinds of trees, from the daintiest of willows to the strongest of oaks. In the center of the forest grew his beautiful wife ’ s rosebush, now the largest single plant in his garden. 
 
 And still, not a single thorn grew. 
 
 The funeral was a small affair, and not too sad, for Robert had lived a great many years, and spent none of them without family. 
 
 He was buried next to the rosebush, under the strongest oak in the garden. 
 
 That night, the plants, who had been nurtured as Roberts children had. Who had heard his stories and seen his smile, had a funeral of their own. They grew on the oak, building his likeness. From the deepest greens to the sweetest of mints, the plants built their father again. 
 
 He faces the rosebush, upon which not a single thorn has ever grown. 

