The pilot claims the stool, of course, the one beside the bench. He always does, though the cat finds it queer. Poor boy can hardly move, it purrs, and it sits without shade. But the pilot is content, and the cat cannot speak, so the wordless pact remains.  

God watches from His perch on the lowest hanging branch at the mischief that ensues in the garden. The wizard is His friend, and so is the cat. No one else can see Him. The lovers may bask in His blessings together on the bench, and the pilot might stare in wonder at His sky, but only the wizard and the cat can see Him. The corpse in the rocker cannot-- she died long ago.

The cat curls up on the wizard’s lap -- he is her chair. There are six chairs in the garden -- the stump, the rocker, the bench, the stool, the wizard, and the lowest hanging branch. The wizard sits on the stump, the one beneath the tree. He looks up to God when he speaks to Him. The cat cannot speak, only feel, and think. Much like the lovers, who are selfish at heart. To desire another is sin, or so the wizard chides. God would beg to differ.

The pilot likes the corpse -- they all do. He likes the way her hairs are carried off with the breeze like the leaves of the tree come winter. The lovers watch her rot away in the garden, a most romantic sight to see. They say she died awaiting her dearest, a soldier killed at war. God would beg to differ. The cat is unbothered, if not only by the stench.

The garden of my mind is a bustling affair. I favor the cat.