When I get home, Cordelia greets me, and a carrot juts its chin from her apron pocket. Oakley has a pecan between his fingers. When I reach to shake, he tries to flick it away and holds two, flicks again and holds four.

The whole weekend we’re one with food. Squashes curl on our laps. My wife opens the refrigerator, and pickled eggs break into a chorus. Cordelia checks the fern and pulls a tiny yam from the soil.

Saturday night as Oakley recalls his dog Tippy — master of the herd of ‘59 — green grapes roll from his eyes. None of us knows what to say ‘til the tomatoes on the sill nod in sympathy and ripen a bit more deeply.