Dad opened the paper bag. He took out a single tomato. Big and red and perfect. The best one from the whole garden. I’d seen him pick it on Thursday, holding it up to the light, turning it around and around in his hands.
He set it on top of her headstone.
“Eleven houses this week, Marta,” he said. “And St. Luke’s. And forty-two families on Saturday. That’s a record.”
He stood there for a moment.
“And the neighbor’s going to be all right,” he said. “June’s boy. He’s coming around. You’d like him, I think. Once he lets you.”
He put his hand flat on top of the stone, next to the tomato.
“I haven’t missed a Friday,” he said quietly. “Not one.”
Then he turned around and walked back to the truck.
I stood at my mother’s grave for a long time.
