Chapter 14 - June Asked to Water the Tomatoes
The following summer, Dad helped me plant tomatoes beside the patio.
For months, June refused to go near the hose.
We used watering cans instead.
Then one July evening, she pointed.
“Can I do it?”
“The hose?”
She nodded.
I kept my face neutral.
“Sure.”
I connected it.
Set the spray to a soft shower.
Handed it to her.
She held it at arm’s length.
Nothing happened because I had not opened the faucet.
June looked at me.
“You do it.”
“Okay.”
I turned the water on slowly.
She sprayed the soil.
Then the tomatoes.
Then accidentally my shoe.
She froze.
I looked down.
“Oh no.”
Her eyes widened.
Then I smiled.
“My shoe has been attacked.”
June laughed.
Really laughed.
She sprayed the other one.
I ran.
She chased me across the yard.
For three minutes, the patio became something else.
Not evidence.
Not a crime scene.
Not the place where my marriage ended.
Just water.
Sunlight.
May you like
A six-year-old laughing hard enough to hiccup.
Healing is sometimes astonishingly ordinary.
