Then he pulled away.
“You should help with potatoes.”
“There he is.”
By the first frost, the garden was bare.
Only stakes remained.
Dad walked the rows every morning anyway.
Brent once asked what he was looking at.
“Next year.”
Winter came.
Snow covered Ruth’s Row.
The county installed a small sign near the road.
RUTH’S ROW COMMUNITY FOOD GARDEN
EST. 2026
Dad objected.
“The garden was here before 2026.”
Aaron explained that the trust was established in 2026.
Dad remained dissatisfied.
The following spring, someone added a smaller sign underneath.
FEED THE NEXT PERSON.
Nobody admitted doing it.
I suspected Claire.
She suspected Brent.
Brent blamed Aaron.
Aaron blamed Anna.
Anna smiled whenever anyone asked.
Dad pretended not to like it.
He never removed it.
On the first Saturday of planting season, I arrived before sunrise.
Dad was already outside.
Seventy-nine had become eighty.
He moved more slowly.
His back bothered him.
