Dad declared it “almost drinkable.”
Near noon, I found him sitting beneath the apple tree.
The tin box had been cleaned and stored safely inside.
But Mom’s marker—MARA—had been moved.
It now stood beside the tree.
Next to it were two new markers.
RUTH.
REBECCA.
I sat beside Dad.
“You did that.”
“Yes.”
“You hate sentimental things.”
“I hate unnecessary sentimental things.”
“What makes this necessary?”
He looked toward the garden.
People moved through the rows.
Elena was teaching Sophie to pull onions.
Brent was arguing with Aaron about the proper size of zucchini.
Claire and Noah carried boxes toward the minivan.
Dad watched all of it.
“Names disappear if nobody says them.”
I leaned against the tree.
“For someone who claims not to like sentiment, you’re getting dangerous.”
“Age.”
We sat together.
After a while I asked, “Do you miss Mom?”
Dad looked offended.
“What kind of question is that?”
