Read by Michael Flamel

“Before we spend the day helping me in the bonsai garden,” said Grandfather, “there are a few things you need to know.”

“You tell us the same thing every time,” said Jenn. She picked up a tiny juniper tree, gnarled and planted in a blue ceramic pot half the size of a teacup. “Bonsai is pronounced bone-sigh, and the smallest trees,” she extended the tiny juniper, “are called Shito bonsai.”

“And Katade-mochi are 10 to 18 inches,” said Ben, picking up a Japanese maple in a shallow ceramic tray. The tree was three or four times older than the twins’ combined age and just slightly taller than their kneecaps. Ben smoothed the moss on the maple bonsai, picked out two newly sprouted weeds, and pushed a stone further beneath an exposed root.

The twins had been helping Grandfather with his many bonsai since they were little. Grandfather had shown them how to trim, prune, water, and repot bonsai as soon as they were old enough to follow him around the yard without falling down more than occasionally.

“But I don’t think,” said Grandfather, “that I’ve ever told you about the legend of the one true bonsai.”

“No,” said Jenn. “I don’t think you have.”

“That’s something I would’ve remembered,” said Ben. “Remembered for sure.”

“Every bonsai gardener gets,” said Grandfather, “only one crop per lifetime of bonsai trees.”

“I think you’ve told us this part before,” said Jenn. “I remember—”

“Because,” Grandfather waved away the interruption, “whenever you’ve finished clipping and shaping a bonsai tree into the proper petite perspective, it will grow and change until you have the same-old-new-tree to clip and trim again. It’s not like finishing a painting or a poem. It’s never-ending because these tough little trees keep forever growing into something that’s forever new. So, when you finish a bonsai, you have just started a bonsai.”

“What’s the legend?” said Jenn. “The legend?”

“The legend of the one true bonsai is,” said Grandfather, “that in every bonsai garden, whether it’s two or three trees on the back porch or acres in Japan, there is a chance for every gardener to cultivate the one true bonsai tree.”

Ben asked, “How do you know if your garden contains a true bonsai?”

“The one true bonsai tree, no matter the age or size, weighs as much,” said Grandfather as he paused for effect, “as the full-size tree would weigh in real life.”

“Wow,” said Ben.

“Impossible,” said Jenn. “The pot would break. You’re making this part up.”

Grandfather picked up a small, bushy, dwarf Alberta spruce nearly as tall as the twins. He quickly hefted the tree and its shiny green pot up to his chest. “In real life, this tree would be about 70 feet tall, and if it were the one true bonsai, I’d never ever-ever-ever-ever be able to lift it off the ground.”

“How does that work?” asked Jenn. “For real: how does that work?”

“The one true bonsai tree resembles an actual tree, somewhere in the real world, so perfectly, that in the quick moment before it grows and changes again, for that short-short period of time, the actual tree lends the bonsai the entire weight of a full-size trunk, branches, leaves, and roots. It’s a complicated mechanism, but it’s the same sort of thing that makes gravity, black holes, and computers work.”

Ben nodded enthusiastically; Jenn looked skeptical.

“Have you ever had a true legend in your garden?” asked Ben.

“No,” said Grandfather, “but I’ve only been growing bonsai for 50 or 60 years. I’ll get it right one of these days. One of these days. Don’t you worry, I’ll get it right.”

The twins wandered off toward the tool shed, whispering to each other.

After lunch, Grandfather checked a shady corner of the yard where the twins had been puttering most of the morning. He saw a cedar bonsai, plastic pot and all, lashed with string to a fence, and a trident maple bonsai glued to a brick with sticky white glue. Grandfather smiled. “Those kids.”

Grandfather cut the string with a pocket knife and washed the still-soft glue off the sleek black bonsai pot with a hose. He smiled at the grandchildren’s attempts to help him cultivate the one true bonsai, that elusive legend.

Then he quickly scanned the yard. “I wonder what those twins will do next?”

Grandfather tiptoed around to the tool shed and saw Jenn with a handful of wicked-long nails and Ben with a hammer bigger than his arm. Grandfather watched a moment, panicked slightly, then turned his back on the twins. He stood where they were certain to see him. He bent down and placed both hands around a slender Japanese white pine in a small round brown pot. He tried to lift it, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Maybe,” said Grandfather, “I’m just not warmed up enough.” He stood straight and, grunting, touched his toes twice. He then performed four or five wobbly jumping jacks and spit into a pile of leaves. He tried again to budge the bonsai and failed. Finally, he stood, touched his toes again, and squatted over the teensy tree like a weight lifter. He seized the small pot with both hands and pulled and yanked until his face was red and veins bulged in his forehead. Still, the tiny potted tree wouldn’t move.

“That’s odd,” he said. He stood above the tree, pondering. Then he tried two more times. No luck.

Then he heard Jenn whisper to Ben, “He did it. I think he did it. It’s The Legend.”

Grandfather almost-kind-of smiled and tried to budge the tree again and again until he heard the nails clatter back into a coffee can and the hammer bang back onto the tool bench. He stood over the tree until he could hear the twins trying to lure Finn the cat out from under the potting table on the other side of the yard. Then Grandfather picked up the Japanese white pine and moved it a few feet to the left so it could spend the afternoon in the cool shade of bushy, fragrant, flowering rhododendrons.

A tiny legend in its own time. ❖

About the Author: Rob Loughran is an award-winning author who enjoys crafting stories that blend whimsy with wisdom. His love for bonsai gardening and storytelling has led to the creation of enchanting tales that capture the imagination of readers young and old.