And next to him, in the next row over, I saw Brent.
On his knees. In jeans with holes in them now. With dirt under his fingernails that won’t come out no matter how hard he scrubs.
He doesn’t try anymore.
A new family came this morning. I’d never seen them before. A young couple with a little boy, maybe seven, in a car with a cracked windshield and Texas plates. They stood at the end of the driveway for a long time before they came up. The way June used to. The way people do when they’ve never done this before and they wish they didn’t have to.
The little boy was holding his mother’s hand. He was looking at the garden with big eyes.
Brent saw them.
He stood up. He brushed the dirt off his knees. He walked down the driveway to meet them.
