Death and the Gardener

My father was a gardener. Now he is a garden. A man sits by his father''s bedside and reports radically and gently until a final winter morning.His father was one of that generation of tragic smokers born right after the World War II in Bulgaria, who clung to the snorkels of their cigarettes. A rebel without a cause, he knew how to fail with heroic self-deprecation.The garden he created out of a barren village yard first saved him, then killed him It remains his living legacy: peonies and potatoes, roses and cherry trees - and endless stories.But without him, his son''s past, with all its af
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