For years no one took care of the garden. Yet this year, May, June, it flourished alone, broke out all over to the railing, a thousand roses, a thousand carnations, geraniums, a thousand, a thousand sweet peas, purple, orange, green, red and yellow, colors, color-wings. So much so that the woman came back, to give the water with his old watering can, again beautiful, serene, with an indefinable conviction. And the garden, hid it up to the shoulders, hugged her, conquered it all. He lifted her in his arms. Then, at noon, we saw the garden and the woman with a watering can ascend to heaven, and as we looked up, a few drops of watering we fell gently on the cheeks, chin, lips.