I work in the garden in the hot morning sun, breaking the soil to accept my offferings of colors and flavors and scents. Bright yellow squash and the sweet ripe tomatoes, and the basil and dill will lay pungent in late August evenings.
He’s off for a while and bids me goodbye as I warn him he’ll slide off my forehead. He kisses the top of my head, smiles, looks down at the dust on my feet, and wipes his lips.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology