Thursday, May 26
The UPS truck brought my backpack Tuesday night as I dithered at home, wanting badly to depart but waiting for steaks to grill and hoping to leave on some positive note.
All weekend my father and I had uncomfortable conversations about my undetermined future, except for the parts of the weekend when I was in a wedding, getting drunk after the wedding, or helping put old fence panels up in the garden for the tomato plants to grow on.
We drove four steel fenceposts in the almost-mud next to each row, and hung the panels with random scraps of wire and recycled clothes hangers. There are a hundred and twenty some plants. It's always like this. A few years ago I spent nearly all summer at home, and must have picked literal tons of tomatoes.
The steaks were good. So was the fresh asparagus and the sun tea.
Like a ripe tomato, the backpack is red. Unlike a tomato, it has many straps and buckles. It hangs on the peg rack in my kitchen, quietly insisting that soon we are going to go places.