They swayed and bobbled like excited puppies, the flowers.
It was the wind, but I couldn't help but whisper calm down.
My fingers were sticky from beheading the frail and deflated petals. Melting trumpets mashed together in the palm of my hand. The hosta flower kept gently tapping my shoulder. What is it? I wanted to ask.
Black-Eyed Susans. Passed down from my grandmother to my mother. Passed down from my mother to me.
Lavender. Standing guard between the roses.
"It smells like you-know-what back here." I say.
An open bag of plant feed just feet away. 95 degrees. Shooooweeee.
"I'm going to eat this one." I say.
I pluck the first ripe cherry tomato.
"Rinse it." Roberto says with the hose kinked in his hand.
I lean forward. The cherry tomato in my palm. The cool water gushing from the hose over the tomato and through my fingers. It feels like summer. 95 degrees.
I pop the tomato into my mouth and with one solid bite, the first of our tomatoes bursts open in my mouth. I can taste the heat from the day trapped inside its thick, fleshy wall. The taste is sweet and sour.
"Are you going to water the side yard too?" I ask.
"Do you want me to?" He replies.
"Yeah." I say smiling.
"Okay." He says.
Back inside, I wash my hands and catch a glimpse in the mirror. My nose is pickled with sweat.