The Garden

The tomatoes came up. I didn’t do anything. They just came up, like you told them to last year and they’re still listening.

I don’t know what half of this is, Marie. You labeled everything, and then the rain washed the labels off, and now it’s all just green. I watered something yesterday that I think is a weed. It looks very happy.

The neighbor’s kid asked if he could pick the strawberries. I said yes. You’d have said yes. You’d have given him a bowl and then a second bowl and then sent him home with jam.

I don’t make jam. I tried. It’s in the sink.

People keep telling me it gets easier. I don’t want it to get easier. If it gets easier, that means I’m getting used to it, and I don’t want to get used to you not being here.

But the tomatoes came up. So I guess I’ll water them. You’d want them watered. That’s what you’d say. “Walter, they don’t care that you’re sad. They’re tomatoes.”

Okay. Okay. I’m watering them.