I live in a secret garden.

My mother is Mary Lennox trapped in the body of a 60 year old. She tends a vibrant garden located in a corner lot. Half of the lot happens to be our small house.

In the corner of the garden is a nipa hut that houses a bamboo bed good enough for two. Visitors come and speak of it as their favourite spot. It is where my uncle and his wife are staying for the moment. My uncle, who looks and talks a lot like my dad, is in the city for his twice-a-week dialysis sessions. The whole family is praying for a miracle.

This morning, while having breakfast inside the house, we saw our uncle wandering around the garden, albeit in very slow motion, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the fresh morning air. My aunt flashed the widest, most hopeful smile. My mom likes to think her garden is miraculous of some sort.

I hope it really is.